


I See Fire

by addicted2hugh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bottom John, Bottom Sherlock, But I Promise He Will Be, Canon Divergence - Many Happy Returns, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, In Fact He's Really Great At Blowjobs, John Almost Cheats, John Watson Swears a Lot, John is a Bit Not Good, John is a Mess, M/M, Mary Ships It (Kind Of), Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Nope!, POV John Watson, Phone Sex, Pining John, Pre and Post Reichenbach, References to Canon, References to Moriarty, Reichenbach Fix-It, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Reunion, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Sherlock is a Mess, Since This Is Hobbit-Inspired, So Much Life-Affirming Sex, Top John, Top Sherlock, Warning: Mentions of Violence and Trauma, Why Not Read The Phone Sex Scene in Benedict's Smaug Voice?, Will There Ever Be a Fic of Mine That Doesn't Contain Smut?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-24 03:31:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14946776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: What if Sherlock had told John about "Lazarus"?This was inspired by the song "I See Fire" by Ed Sheeran. The atmosphere of looming danger expressed in it got me thinking. What if Sherlock and Mycroft hadn't been alone in preparing for the most momentous day of Sherlock's and John's lives? What if John had known about the plan, too? What if being faced with limited time left to be spent together had led them to rethink their relationship? What if John had said all the things he wanted to say then? And how would they have coped with being apart for two years?(Disclaimer: This includes parts of the original script.)I hope you'll like how this turned out.Comments are <3 and always very much appreciated!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Ariane DeVere for her wonderfully detailed transcripts of the episodes this story is based on. She must have spent hours and hours to write them down, and they were so helpful to refer back to for dialogues and when trying to stick to the original timeline of events (even though I changed a lot of things to be able to make my own ideas fit in). Check out her work here: https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/30648.html and https://arianedevere.livejournal.com/63401.html

“Sherlock, I don’t want the world believing you’re---”

He looks at me then, and the fire in his gaze makes me stop dead in the middle of the sentence.

“That I am what?” he asks coldly, cutting me with what a casual bystander would probably describe as icy venom, but what I know is actually fear and disappointment.

It pains me how little trust he obviously puts in  _me_.

“A  _fraud_ ,” I reply defiantly.

He snorts and rolls his eyes.

“You’re worried they’re right,” he says lowly.

“ _What?_ ” I furrow my brow. I can’t believe how  _thick_  he is sometimes.

He shrugs, reminding me of a petulant child. Oh Sherlock.

“You’re worried they’re right about me.”

“No,” I say, because nothing could be further from the truth, and I’m surprised he doesn’t know,  _genius_  that he is.

He raises his chin, and I can’t decide whether I want to hug him or hit him.

“That’s why you’re so upset. You can’t even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You’re afraid that you’ve been taken in as well,” he says quickly.

He’s getting more and more furious, but I don’t know what else to say to make him see that I’m on his side – always have been, always will. I turn around and look out of the window.

“No, I’m  _not_.”

He inhales audibly.

“Moriarty is playing with your mind, too.” I glance behind myself to see him slamming his hand down on the desk in an uncharacteristic demonstration of nerves. “Can’t you  _see_  what’s going on?”

I avert my eyes again.

“No, I know you’re for real.”

“A hundred percent?”

There’s a challenge in his words, a challenge for me to admit my doubts in him, but he also sounds insecure, so I turn to look at him again.

“Well, no one could fake being such an annoying dick  _all_  the time,” I joke, hoping he’ll see everything I’m  _not_  saying in my eyes.

It takes him a while, but finally the corner of his mouth twitches upwards in a minuscule smile. I’ve got to him.

Thank God.

“What are we going to do now?” I ask. “You must have some kind of plan.”

He steeples his fingers beneath his chin, looking up at me from under a fringe of dark curls.

“Must I?”

I hold up my hands in a gesture that says  _Are you serious?_  and shake my head.

“Yes. You’re  _not_  a fraud. You’re Sherlock Holmes, for God’s sake, so tell me. What are we going to do?”

\---

“Why can’t you tell me?”

What’s the fucking  _point_  of telling me there’s a plan if you then can’t tell me what it is?

“John, it’s for your own good. Please. Stop asking.”

“No.” I’ll keep insisting until he tells me. “I want to know. Tell me!”

He throws up his arms in exasperation.

“I can’t! I wish I could, I really do! But it would be too dangerous.”

I take a few deep breaths – in through the nose, out through the mouth. I’m trying to stay calm.

“Does Mycroft know?” I ask.

He hesitates, then nods.

“Yes.”

I fold my arms in front of my chest, planting my feet on the carpet. Oh  _really_.

“You trust him more than you trust me?”

The question is mostly meant to provoke him – I know he trusts me. He  _has_  to, after all we’ve been through. He looks at me, a helpless plea in his eyes.

“John. I know he does everything to keep people in the dark about his motives, but please believe me when I tell you that Mycroft is not your – or my – enemy. Quite the opposite. And I need a bit of help.”

“Have I ever let you down, Sherlock? In the first few weeks of our acquaintance, I was willing to kill for you, and did. I was willing to be blown up for you along with the man who’s now making our lives hell. What more do you want?  _What?_ ”

My heart is pounding, and I feel myself losing control. I don’t understand what’s going on, but I sense that it’s something terrible. I’m hurt by his distrust, and I’m scared.

He shakes his head.

“No, John. You haven’t let me down. And I won’t let you down now by telling you things that will endanger your life.”

He sounds so calm, so reasonable. My throat constricts in fury and despair.

“ _Sherlock_ , you’re my--- my best friend. I ask of you to honour that by being honest to me.”

He presses his lips together.

“I  _am_. It’s true that I can’t tell you.”

Oh, fuck this. Fuck  _him_.

“ _Fuck_  you!”

Before my brain can catch up with what my body is doing, I’ve got the lapels of his jacket in my hands. I push him against the wall, hard, and the back of his head hits the wallpaper with a dull thud.

He winces in pain, and it gives me a perverted twinge of pleasure to see it.

“You say this is a matter of life and death – give me the chance to decide how I want to deal with that! What if you die and I stay behind, never to know what happened? What if he kills you and I could have prevented it? Do you have any idea how that would make me feel? Do you even  _care?_ ”

He squints at me, shaking his head a little as if to clear it.

“I won’t die,” he replies flatly. "That's the whole point."

He's driving me mad!

“What _if?_ ”

I’m shouting now, my face only inches from his, and I hope Mrs Hudson is out – I don’t want her to hear this. I’m embarrassed by the way I’m handling the situation, but I can’t help it. He has to tell me. He has to see that I need to know.

“John,” he says quietly.

The word bumps against my lips on a warm puff of his breath, and I have to close my eyes for a second. When I look at him again, his expression is so, so sad. I’ve never seen him look so sad before.

We stand there for a while, my fists still twisted in his clothes, our chests rising and falling in counterpoint, and slowly my anger dissolves and is replaced by resignation.

“Okay,” I finally say, my voice hollow, and let go of him. “Okay. Suit yourself.”

I make to turn away, but his hands come up to grab my shoulders to hold me back.

“John… If I tell you, it might mean your death. Do you really want to know?” he asks.

His eyes, so incredibly coloured in blue and green and gold, bore into mine.

“I do,” I say.

He nods.

“He said I owe him a  _fall_ , John. I’ll call Mycroft. Then I’ll tell you everything.”

\---

“When you come to check my pulse, you have to imagine I’m dead. You have to  _believe_  it. If you can’t do that, you can’t be there. It also--- It might put too much of a strain on you, which I’d completely understand. You don’t  _have_  to do it, John. You can just be at home.”

Yeah,  _right_. I’ll stay at home and have a nice hot cuppa while you throw yourself off a damn hospital.

“I can do it, Sherlock. Stop treating me like a child.”

He nods and taps his chin with his index finger.

“It’s actually much  _better_  if you’re there. If they see you confirm my death by mourning me, they’ll believe I’m really gone.”

The calculating coolness in his tone riles me up.

“How  _convenient_  for you,” I snap.

“John… See?”

He gives me a sad smile (the manipulative  _arse_ ) and I want to kick myself for not holding my tongue. I ran right into his trap, idiot that I am. I take a deep breath and put my hands on my hips.

“I can do it. I always thought you knew that you could rely on me. Was I wrong?”

He bites down on his bottom lip, and for a moment he looks desperate.

“I trust you with my life, John. This, however, is about  _your_  life,” he says softly, his voice caressing the sore spot inside of me.

“I can do it,” I repeat, pleased that I don’t sound as churned up as I feel.

Sherlock nods and takes a step towards me.

“We’ll have to go through it again and again. It has to look convincing. We’ll have to… practise.”

I glance over my shoulder. Mycroft is still sitting in my armchair, perfectly motionless. In the half-light, he looks like a sphinx waiting for a weary traveller to solve its riddle. I gesture in his general direction, feeling my jaw set into a stern expression.

There's no way I'm letting Mycroft witness this.

“I’m sorry, but he’ll have to leave. If we practise this, we’ll do it between the two of us.”

Sherlock inclines his head in acknowledgement and then looks at his brother, who gets up without a word and picks up his coat and umbrella from the other chair.

“Dr Watson,” he then says and gives me the briefest of smirks. “I'll see you at the funeral.”

I watch Sherlock accompany him to the open door.

“Brother mine,” Mycroft says, one of his feet already on the threshold, but Sherlock just nods, and then suddenly they’re embracing each other, holding on tight.

I stare, even though I know I shouldn’t. This is so out of character for both of them, and it’s the most intimate moment I’ve ever seen them share. It’s equally beautiful and terrifying.

It only lasts for two seconds, then they let go simultaneously and smooth down their respective jackets.

“Good luck,” Mycroft says, his tone as silky as ever.

Then he’s gone.

\---

He’s lying in front of me in his expensive suit, propped up on his elbows, and if what we’re about to do wasn’t so important, I'd say the whole thing looks ridiculous.

“Look at me. I’m dead. I’ve just jumped off St Bart’s. You’ve seen me fall. I’m lying on the pavement, my skull broken. There’s blood everywhere.”

“Sherlock---”

“Go.”

He settles back on the floor and freezes, his eyes wide open, his mouth slightly agape. His arm is twisted at an awkward angle. I realise he’s practised this before, maybe in front of a mirror, or with Mycroft.

It looks real. Much too real.

He’s dead. He’s just jumped. He’s dead, John. Sherlock is  _dead_.

I find it difficult to feel anything, but then I remember how this was supposed to play out - how he and Mycroft had planned to do it. I wouldn't have known. I would have seen him jump, and I would have thought it was real. I would have lost him, just like that. Who knows - we might have had a fight before that, or maybe I wouldn't have said goodbye properly when he left, and then---

The scenario runs through my head in mere seconds, and suddenly I'm seeing it, as clearly as if it was real.

"No."

I fall to my knees beside him.

“Sherlock--- oh God,  _Sherlock!_  Can you hear me?”

I grip his shoulder and shake him.

“Sherlock!”

I reach for his throat and feel his pulse. His skin is still warm. It's so soft against my fingers.

His gaze is unseeing, his irises glinting like a kaleidoscope of cool colours. The heat burning inside them is gone. He’s left me forever. I’m alone now.

All alone.

“God--- no.  _No._ ”

I don’t even have to force myself to cry. In the back of my mind scenes from our past flit by, one by one, showing me his smile, his laugh, his hands around my head, his eyes looking into mine. Our adventures replay themselves inside of me, and it hurts so much.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” I whisper hoarsely, staring at his face, hallucinating blood and broken bones.

I’m too empty to make another sound. My tears are dripping on his clothes, making tiny dark spots on the navy blue silk.

My life, my  _everything_  is lying before me, shattered, and I know I’ll never be happy again. Never again.

He startles me when he suddenly blinks and raises his hand to touch my cheek.

“ _John_ ,” he breathes.

His thumb brushes my cheekbone, then my eyebrow.

I swallow thickly and press my face against his palm, my eyes sliding shut out of their own accord. His hand is so soft, so warm.

“John,” he repeats.

Before I realise that it’s exactly what I want, what I  _need_  right now, his fingers leave my cheek and he hooks them into the collar of my shirt to pull me down towards himself.

I keep my eyes closed, scared of what we're doing, but craving it so much.

“John,” he whispers a third time, and then our mouths meet in the most deliciously gentle kiss I’ve ever shared with anyone.

His lips are full and soft, and when he uses them to coax mine open to slide his tongue into my mouth, my whole body begins to tingle. He tastes sweet and zesty, and I respond without thinking, licking along his lower lip, then dipping my tongue between his teeth to rub it against his. He shivers.

“John,” he mumbles into the space between us, his breath a mixture of black tea and a unique scent that must be his.

My name becomes a mantra he repeats over and over again as we continue to kiss, he on his back and I on my knees, and then he wraps his arms around me and pulls at me until I’m beside him on the floor, breaking our connection in the process. We part with a tiny wet sound, breathing heavily against each other's lips.

I open my lids, slowly, afraid of what I’m going to find in his eyes, but he’s looking at me with such tenderness that it makes my stomach clench.

“I’m sorry I have to put you through this,” he says. “I’m so sorry, John. Your reaction--- I’m afraid I wasn’t prepared for it. You are--- You were---”

He breaks off and shakes his head, lost for words.

I run my hand through his hair – because I’ve always wanted to do that, and because I sense that he needs comforting, too.

“Devastated,” I finish his sentence for him. “Heartbroken.”

He sighs, his voice catching in the back of his throat, and for a little while it looks as if he wanted to cry, too. I watch him silently, waiting for him to speak again.

I'd be lying if I said I'd never thought about this. I have. I thought about it that first night at Angelo's, and I've thought about it time and time again ever since.

But I'm not lying when I say I'm not gay. I'm  _not_. I've never been with another man, and he's the only one who's ever made me feel like that. It confuses me more than I can say, but up to two seconds ago I'd always assumed that he wasn't interested in any kind of romantic or sexual entanglement with anybody anyway. He’s married to his work, he always says.

I’ve always known that he values my companionship, and our bond has always been strong and somehow special, and it has always felt unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. Looking at him now, I realise that it’s probably love, and that it has probably been there for a while now, but I don't know what to do. I can't make the next move. He has to help me.

“I’ll be gone for a very long time, John,” he eventually says. “Be aware of that.”

I nod. He normally doesn’t resort to subtlety when he wants to communicate something important, but what is being implied here is so monumental that it seems that even the great Sherlock Holmes can’t spell it out as it is. He might be the only one of his kind, but he’s also just human, after all.

He's right. But this might be my only chance. I'd be crazy not to take it.

“I am,” I reply. “I’m very aware of that.”

He smiles a little, and it looks so lovely that I want to kiss him all over again. I don't, for the time being, since I'm not sure yet where this will lead. Does Sherlock have… sex? I always thought he was above such mundane, irrational things.

He reaches up and touches my lips with his fingertips, which makes me shudder against him.

“The floor doesn’t seem to be the right place to do this,” he says lowly, an almost inaudible question mark hanging in the air when he's finished.

I suppress a laugh. I guess this means that yes, sex is definitely an option. I open my mouth to flick my tongue against his fingers, tasting salt and skin, and the low hum of pleasure he gives in response sends a spark of arousal between my legs.

“No,” I agree. "It really doesn't."

\---

"We haven’t got a lot of time. They’ll be coming to arrest me." He’s still panting with the effort of our last kiss, and I’m surprised that a sound as ordinary as breathing is turning me on so much. “We’ve got an hour, maybe two.”

His hands pulling at my jumper to get it over my head and off are distracting, and I feel silly standing there with my wrists still tangled up in the sleeves and my hair all tousled, but I manage to smirk seductively nonetheless.

“There are a lot of things one can do in an hour.”

He chuckles lowly and finally frees my hands from the stubborn garment so that I can put my palms on his body again. His muscles are moving under the fabric of his shirt, and I feel him thrumming with life, with energy. His face pressed against my neck, he grazes the soft spot beneath my ear with his teeth and simultaneously shrugs off his jacket with a smooth, careless motion.

 _God._ He’s so sexy. I realise that I don’t care that he’s a man. There’s no one else like him, and I want everything he has to give – his mind, his heart, and his body, too.

“Yes…” he rumbles. “And I intend to do all of them to you…”

Without looking, he starts to unbutton my shirt, and I mirror him because I want to catch up. I want  _skin_ , now.

“ _Grrrmmm_ ,” he mutters and licks a long stripe from my Adam’s apple to my mouth, and by now I’m starting to suspect that there’s a little bit of oral fixation involved on his part. 

Not that I’m complaining.

He nips at my bottom lip and pushes my shirt off my arms, then runs his fingers down my back. When his right hand slides under the waistband of my trousers and he dips his middle finger into the cleft between my buttocks, I growl and pull him against me, getting on my toes to grind our hips together. His half-open shirt allows me to feel his chest against mine, warm and smooth and slightly sweaty.

“ _Yes_ ,” he whispers hoarsely and bucks against me.

He’s rock-hard, and I don’t know why I haven’t tried this before – the feeling of his erection rubbing against mine like this is the most exquisite sensation, even through four layers of clothing. I can only imagine what it’ll be like without anything in between.

“ _Fuck_ ,” I whisper against his gasping mouth. “I want to  _feel_  you…  _all_  of you, Sherlock…  _now_ …”

He utters a sound of agreement that is something between a moan and a grunt and kisses me again. His fingers make short work of the row of buttons holding up my trousers while I finally rid him of his shirt, and then everything happens very fast.

He gets on his knees in front of me and pulls down my trousers and pants in one go, and then his mouth is on me, on my thigh, in the crease of my crotch, sliding over my bollocks, his tongue stealing a taste here and there. I can only try to keep upright and  _breathe_.

“Yes, John,” he moans, his voice even deeper than usual. “And I want all of you.”

His lips slide along my penis from base to head, his breath so hot on my skin, and then he pushes at my hips to turn me around and administers a gentle bite to my left buttock before licking his way right into my crack.

“ _All_  of you,” he repeats, and my knees buckle.

For a brief, unromantic moment I wonder if I’m okay with this and then remember that this morning’s bowel movements happened  _before_  my shower, thank the heavens for that, and then I roll my eyes at myself inside my head, because  _really_  – listen to him doing his thing down there; he  _loves_  it, wants it. Everything’s alright. Calm down now, John. Okay.

“ _Hmmm_ …” he hums as if to prove my point and circles my opening with his tongue. “That was the shortest panic attack in the history of humanity,” he then mutters against my wet skin, tickling me with his breath, and I close my eyes.  _Damn_ his fucking deduction skills.

“You  _cock_ ,” I whisper, half amused and half embarrassed. “Stop showing off.”

He laughs one of his rare real laughs then, and the sound makes me fall in love with him all over again.

His right hand wanders to my front and he strokes his palm up and down the underside of my cock with not nearly enough pressure, and I clench my teeth and will myself not to groan with impatience. My whole lower body is on fire, and he only intensifies the feeling when he uses his free hand to spread me open for him and his incredible mouth.

“You’re delicious,” he breathes, serious again, and sucks at the rim of my entrance. “I want to  _devour_  you.”

No one has ever done something like this to me, and no one has ever spoken words like these to me either. It’s hard to think straight with his tongue pushing its way inside of me, but I still marvel at how he’s expressing his desire. I’m all for dirty talk, love doing it myself, but he’s so delightfully old-fashioned. It’s arousing and endearing in equal measures.

“ _Please_  do,” I whisper back, collecting all that’s left of my eloquence. “But we’ll have to take this to the bed soon, because--- because if you keep this up, my legs are not going to hold me up for much longer.”

I should have known that he wouldn’t be able to resist this challenge, and along with the next thrust of his slick tongue I also get a long, tight stroke of his hand, complete with a perfect flick of his thumb across my tip. I jerk violently. It feels so good. My body doesn’t know whether it wants to grind back against his face or buck up into his hand, and my legs are trembling. I can’t. I need to lie down,  _right now_.

He pulls me down on himself when I sink to the floor with a shaky groan and ruts his still fully clothed penis against my naked arse. My feet are still caught in my trousers and my pants are cutting into my calves, but I don’t mind. He’s all around me, all I need. He can do to me whatever he wants.

“I want to be inside you,” he pants. “ _Oh_ … Please let me make love to you…”

I let my head fall back against his shoulder and he kisses my neck, my ear, my temple.

“ _Yes_ ,” I sigh. “Yes, yes,  _Sherlock_ …”

I have no idea what I’m agreeing to here. Should I be more afraid?

He licks along the shell of my ear, his hands running up and down my chest and abdomen, his fingernails scraping along my ribs, my nipples, leaving a prickling trail of sensitivity in their wake.

I find that no, I’m not afraid. I’m _eager_.

“I’ve dreamt about this for so long,” he says huskily, still caressing me, still avoiding the place I want to feel him most. The teasing is slowly driving me insane, but I also wish he never had to stop. “I touched myself thinking about it, about  _you_ … If only we had more time… I’d worship your body again and again…”

I shiver and incline my head to see myself beginning to leak, and I know he’s seen it too when he hums and reaches down to dip his index finger into the transparent drops of moisture collecting at my tip. Very slowly, he then lifts his hand to his mouth to lick my essence off his own skin.

“Fuck,” I curse and turn in his arms to press my mouth against his and taste myself on his lips. Our tongues entwine once more in a wet, lascivious kiss that leaves me breathless and lightheaded. “Take me to your bed now,” I tell him, my voice sounding strangely gravelly to my own ears. “I can’t--- wait any longer. See what you do to me…”

I grab his hand and put it back on my cock to let him feel how much I want him, and he sucks my bottom lip into his mouth and bites down on it while sliding his fingers up and down my length, giving me the stimulation I've been craving at last.

I moan lowly and thrust into his fist.

"Mmhhh, you're so  _wet_..." he growls and pulls at my lip with his teeth. 

I smile at him when he lets me go again. I’m feeling bolder now and not as insecure as before.

He’s fantasised about me, too.

I try not to think about the fact that our moments together might be limited, at least for the foreseeable future. We need to seize the day, so to speak, and make it good. Something to remember.

“Come on,” I say and take his hand in mine. “Bed. Now.”

He complies without another word.

\---

“Oh---  _God_  yes, Sherlock…  _mmhhh!_ ”

I writhe and buck and pull at the pillow my head is resting on, not knowing where to put my hands to keep at least a tiny grasp on reality. He's driving me wild, and we haven't even really started yet.

He’s busy between my legs, sucking me with wanton sounds of pleasure, his middle finger sliding in and out of me at the same time, going deeper and deeper, preparing me for what’s to come. He’s passionate, but very gentle, listening to my responses and adjusting his ministrations accordingly, and I’m surprised to find that I'm already so far gone, already halfway out of my mind.

I’ve never experimented with putting anything inside my body, but rather enjoyed being the dominant part when it came to physical relationships, somehow assuming that being the strong male lover and having something shoved up your arse are mutually exclusive. So far I’ve never felt that I’ve been missing out.

Boy, was I  _wrong_. This is amazing, better than anything I've ever done in bed before.

The sweet, insistent ache of arousal is spreading through my body with mounting ferocity, and the fact that it’s  _Sherlock_  I’m doing this with makes everything ten times more exciting. I always thought allowing another person to touch me like this would be a painful and potentially humiliating experience, but it isn't. It's perfect.

His taste and the phantom feeling of his silky hardness slipping against my tongue are still lingering in my mouth, so delicious, so heady. He looked beautiful when I took him in. I kept my eyes on him all the time, memorising every flutter of his lids, every lustful frown, every strangled gasp. His fingers were in my hair, pulling tightly when it became too intense and he wanted me to stop, and my scalp is still tingling with the aftershocks of his touch.

“Oh fuck,” I pant when he finds my prostate and brushes it lightly with the pad of his finger. “Oh  _God_.”

He smiles around me and lets me slide from his mouth, and the air feels cool against my wet flesh when he lets go of my cock to let it rest against my abdomen again.

“You’re wonderful,” he whispers. “I treasure every moment of this, John…”

I chuckle weakly. I’m enjoying myself immensely, but I wish we could be closer.

“Can you do this from up here?” I ask.

He smiles and pulls his hand away to move up my body and lie down beside me.

“Lift your leg,” he orders quietly, and when I do, he grabs the back of my knee to pull me against himself, front to front, my thigh sliding over his hip. “Yes, just like that…”

I take a moment to revel in the feeling of our erections being pressed against each other and the soft, damp plumpness of his bollocks pushing against mine, the contact even more electric than I imagined it earlier. His hand is back between my cheeks in no time at all, but now there are two fingers nudging at my opening, and I put my head on his upper arm and hide my face in the crook of his neck when he slowly pushes in and stretches me open with small, careful thrusts. He’s breathing against my ear, murmuring sweet nothings to get me to relax.

“Yes, love, let me in… Open up for me... Mmhhh, you’re burning inside… You’re  _so_  hot… Do you like this?  _Hmmm_ … Do you want me to touch your sweet spot again…? Oh,  _John_ …”

His voice has always been my weakness; even in infuriating situations it made it hard to resist him (“John. Hand me my phone.” – “John. I’m bored.” – “John! Tea!”), but now I realise that it’s like a drug, clouding my brain with its soft, velvety drawl. There seems to be a direct connection from my ears to my lower regions, too, because right now it feels as if I could come if he just kept talking to me.

One knuckle, then two. Then three.

“Ohhh… ” I moan when he’s all the way inside, and he bites my earlobe and begins a slow rhythm of in and out, pushing against my prostate with every thrust, the lubricant coating his fingers making slick, pornographic sounds that only heighten my excitement.

It hurts a little, but not enough to make me want to stop.

“Oh, I could get lost in you… listening to you,  _feeling_  you like this… It’s so good, John… I could do this forever… I could just make you climax like this, feel your penis twitch against mine when you reach your peak... feel you bathe me in your warm release… It would be  _so_  beautiful… But not now, there’s no time,  _no_ … I want to be  _inside_  you…” he whispers, and I feel like crying.

I want to do all that, too. I want to love him every possible way, make him come with my hands, my mouth, my body. We don’t have the time. It’s not fair.

“I love you, John… I’ve loved you for such a long time,” he adds throatily and kisses the corner of my mouth, and then he goes in deep and rubs that perfect spot inside of me again, harder this time, and I sob out a desperate groan and raise my head to pull him close and kiss him properly.

“God, I--- I love you too,” I moan into the kiss. I don’t think I’ve ever said  _I love you_  and meant it before. This fills my heart unlike anything I’ve ever felt. “ _Sherlock_ …”

“John… I’ll miss you  _so_  much.” He’s breathing fast. “Do we need to use a condom?”

It’s bizarre, especially after me being so overwhelmed by all of this not even half an hour ago, but somehow this conversation feels normal now. I shake my head. I’m clean, and I trust that if he asks like that, he’s aware of his own status as well.

“Good,” he says and slowly scissors his fingers, opening me up even more. “Get on your back, John… I want to look at your face.”

I obey, and his hand follows me when I roll onto my back, never breaking our connection.

“Take a deep breath, then let it out slowly,” he tells me and gets on top of me, his tall frame arranging itself between my legs, and I do as he says.

He’s big, but not scarily so, and I’m happy that he’s long rather than thick, because he’s replacing his fingers with his penis now, pressing into me, his blunt head spreading the now slack ring of muscle up to its breaking point, or at least it feels like that.

“Fuck,” I gasp. “ _Sherlock_.”

“Are you--- alright?” he asks, his voice shaking. “You’re  _so_  tight… Am I hurting you?”

“No,” I say, although it does hurt, in a somehow pleasant sort of way. “Go slow.”

“Yes… Slowly, my love…”

He rocks his hips in shallow, barely noticeable thrusts, sliding inside further and further, and as soon as he's all the way inside, it becomes much easier. I pull him down for a kiss, already addicted to his taste, and he puts his whole being into it, his lips and tongue distracting me from the slight discomfort of accommodating to being joined with him for the first time.

We kiss and kiss, and without thinking I put my legs up and around his lower body to rest my heels against his arse, pulling him into me a little more in the process. The angle changes ever so slightly, and suddenly my pain turns into warm, throbbing fullness, the sweet pressure of his hardness inside of me becoming everything I feel.

“Oh _God_ ,” he pants against my lips. “ _Oh_ … You feel so good…”

I wrap my arms around him, realising that I don’t have to be the passive party in this, and meet his next thrust with one of my own, and being able to control the way he penetrates me gives me a new sense of security. If there’s pain, I can move and make it stop, and if it feels good, I can make it feel even better.

He seems to notice what’s happening inside my head and smiles down at me, his eyes bright.

“We’re making love, John,” he says, and the look on his face is one of wonder.

I smile back at him and card my fingers through the ruffled hair sticking up behind his ears.

“Yes, we are,” I answer. “You can move now… I’m alright.”

“Mmmhhhh…”

He purrs and sinks onto me with his full weight, his mouth next to my cheek, his hips rolling against my arse in slow, rhythmic circles. My cock is pulsing between our bodies, getting just the right amount of friction to keep the waves of pleasure undulating through me coming steadily, and when he starts to thrust a little harder and bites my clavicle, I shiver and buck up against him. It feels so good,  _so good_.

My body is screaming for it by now. There’s my prostate, yes.  _God_. Please keep doing this.

“ _Fuck_  me,” is all I can say. “ _Right_  there--- please…”

He gets what I mean and keeps going, harder, a little faster, and every thrust hits right home. Although I’m a doctor and obviously know the theory of it all, I can’t believe how great this feels. I’m right on the verge of orgasm, but not quite getting there, and it’s the most wonderful kind of torture.

Almost there.  _Almost._  Don’t stop.

“I love--- doing this to you…” he presses out after a while, and I can’t help but admire his stamina. His command of his body is marvellous, his rhythm perfect. There's a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his skin now, and I run my hands down his spine until I can cup his arse.

"I love--- what you're doing to me," I pant in reply. "You're so--- fucking---  _good_..."

He rumbles against my temple, and it sounds pleased.

"Faster?" he then asks and kisses my cheekbone, his hair falling into his face in wild, enticing curls.

" _God_ , yes," I groan. "Yes,  _please_..."

"Mmhhh,  _yes_..."

He pushes his forearms under my upper body and grips my shoulders for leverage, and then he starts pounding into me hard and fast, grunting with the effort of it.

"Oh-ohhh,  _fu-uck_..." I groan. "Sher-lock---"

My voice is vibrating with the impact of his movements, and I dig my fingers into his buttocks, feeling them clench and unclench in my grasp. He's so, so good.

"Hnnggghhh---  _John_ ," he forces out. "Are you---  _close_?"

"Ye- _ah_ ", I gasp. "Keep going--- Just--- a  _little_ \--- longer..."

He's gulping for air by now, and we're both sweating so much that the sheets are clinging to our bodies. He must be exhausted, but he just keeps going, and then, finally, I feel it build up inside my loins.

“Gonna  _come_ ,” I whisper. “Oh God, _yes_ …”

His lips slide across my temple in a sloppy kiss and he hums against my skin. He’s in my head, in my heart, in the blood pumping through my veins. It takes only a few more thrusts to push me over the edge.

"Yes--- oh  _God!_  Sherlock---  _Ungh!_ " I moan and throw my head back against the pillow when my back arches off the bed and my arms and legs go tense. "Oh GOD!"

I spill myself in two, three long spurts, and the sensation is so strong that everything around me goes black for a moment. I've had a lot of sex in my time - but I've never had an orgasm like this.

I can feel my body convulsing around his cock as I ride it out, and suddenly his movements become erratic. 

" _John_ ," he sobs, and I hear him as if from far away. "Ah!"

Hot fluid fills my insides then, and he attaches his mouth to my neck and muffles his cries that way. He's shaking all over.

" _Baby_ , yes,  _yes_ …" I sigh and just hold him tight, and he rocks us back and forth with short, shuddering thrusts, groaning softly, lost in his release.

After a while, he slows down and then stops, and we just stay like that, all our limbs entwined, arms wrapped around each other in a vice-like embrace, trying to catch our breath.

I want to stay in bed with him forever, just like this. Make love, rest, repeat. 

I wish we could.

"My love," he eventually whispers and looks up to smile at me.

He’s so, so beautiful. I need him so much that it hurts.

"My love," I reply, and it’s not something I’d usually say, but there's nothing that could express what I feel for him any better.

We stare into each other's eyes.

"That was unexpected," he says and kisses my lips, then my cheek.

I chuckle softly.

"I liked it a lot."

He huffs and rubs his nose against mine.

"I liked it that you called me  _baby_ ," he then says and grins shyly.

I open my mouth to reply, but the sound of our door being pushed open makes the words die on my tongue.

"Boys?" 

It's Mrs Hudson.

"Sherlock?" 

And Lestrade.

_Fuck._

"I'm in the bedroom!  _Don't_  come in!"

There’s a hint of panic in Sherlock’s voice, but I have no idea whether he’s scared of being arrested or of being caught in the act.

“Sherlock?”

Lestrade is right in front of the bedroom door now, and I can hear other voices in the background, too. They’ve come to take him away.

“Greg, I’m serious – if you come in, I’ll  _kill_  you!” I call out.

“ _John?_  What are you doing in there?”

I roll my eyes, and then something unprecedented happens. Sherlock  _giggles_. It sounds slightly hysterical.

“What the  _hell_  do you think?” I shout. “Hold back the dogs – we’ll be right out!”

Sherlock looks at me with a sigh of regret and pulls away to sit up. I gasp when he slips out of me, and he grimaces in apology.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For  _everything_.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Sherlock.” I sit up as well, feeling strangely empty, already missing his presence inside of me. He completed me, and now he’s gone again. “We’ll get through this, Sherlock. Okay?”

He nods and exhales loudly. “Okay.”

I smile at him then, because he’s so distressed and I want to make him feel better. He looks so young right now, so vulnerable. If he needs me to, I'll try to be the stronger one.

Now that I'm sitting upright again, his come begins to trickle out of me, and it's a strange feeling. There's a dark spot spreading out on the mattress beneath me, and I look at him a little sheepishly.

"I'm making a complete mess of your bed. Sorry," I say, but he just shakes his head.

"It's alright. It's me who should apologise. I'm the reason for the mess in the first place," he answers seriously, and I don’t know if he’s only talking about the remnants of our passion that are now staining his sheets and our skin.

I wish he didn’t look so sad.

“We’ll get that afterglow eventually,” I tell him and put my hand on his cheek. “Let’s save it for next time.”

He half-smiles at me, and it looks bittersweet.

“Yes,” he murmurs and kisses my palm. “Let’s do that.”

\---

“Oh, I  _said_  it.”

Donovan looks so smug that it makes me want to punch her.

“Mm-hm?” I mutter, trying to sound indifferent.

Shut up, you  _bitch_.

“First time we met,” she clarifies, as if I didn’t know what she was referring to.

I glare at her. “Don’t  _bother_.”

She carries on anyway. This must be like Christmas for her and Anderson.

“Solving crimes won’t be enough. One day he’ll cross the line. Now, ask yourself, what sort of man would kidnap those kids just so he can impress us all by finding them? I'll tell you - your  _boyfriend_  would.”

Mrs Hudson gasps in the background, and as if everything wasn’t fucked up enough already, that’s the precise moment the Chief Superintendant enters the room.

“Donovan,” he says and nods curtly.

She bows her head. “Sir.”

“Got our man?” he asks.

She nods. “Yes, Sir.”

He looks around pompously, taking in our flat with a condescending frown.

“Looked a bit of a  _weirdo_ , if you ask me,” he says. “Often are, these vigilante types.”

I clench my jaw. Donovan is lucky – she’s not going to be the one who’ll feel my anger today. Oh, no. I take a step towards the man, staring at his face, blood roaring in my ears. He looks slightly taken aback now.

“What are  _you_  looking at?”

I just walk on, my right hand already balling itself into a fist.

He’s making it way too easy.

\---

“Joining me?” he asks with a smirk when they push me against the police car right next to him.

I shrug.

“Yeah. Apparently it’s against the law to chin the Chief Superintendant.”

He bites down on his bottom lip. There’s a loving glint in his eyes when he whispers: “I’m so proud of you.”

My heart takes a leap, but then they unlock the cuff on his right hand and transfer it to my wrist instead, chaining us together.

I know we’re in a pickle, but how surreal is this?

I've just had sex with my best friend, and I seem to be quite madly in love with him. He's being arrested for something he didn't do. Our flat is swarming with an army of annoying officers and detectives right now, and I've just hit their boss. In the face. A madman is going to kill me if my friend, who's now my  _boy_ friend (?), doesn't pretend to kill himself beforehand.

Adrenaline is spreading through my system, making me giddy.

“Are you making an honest man of me?” I joke and shake my arm to make the handcuffs tinkle. “We could have picked out the rings  _together_ , though.”

He utters a brief laugh, but then turns serious again.

“Hm. Bit awkward, this,” he remarks.

I nod, sobering up a little. “Huh. No one to bail us.”

He licks his lips, fixing his gaze on me. “I was thinking more of our imminent and daring escape.”

_Oh._

Okay, then.

\---

We’re at St Bart’s, hiding in Molly’s lab, having just updated each other on what we found out after we separated in front of Kitty’s flat.

Mycroft is an idiot, I told Sherlock. He’s brilliant, but he’s also a huge, huge idiot. An idiot who’s “sorry”. Sherlock just pursed his lips and nodded without a reply, his eyes dark and inscrutable, and when I looked at his calm, pensive face, it suddenly hit me. There never was a betrayal, was there? Sherlock confirmed this inkling. He and Mycroft have been working on dismantling Moriarty’s network for weeks, having started long before he decided to destroy Sherlock in front of the whole country. Why didn’t Mycroft tell me so himself? “He chided me for involving you. He probably wanted nothing to do with it. I don’t know, John. Sometimes he enjoys being enigmatic – maybe it’s just that.”

Molly, on the other hand, is awesome. She’s already off, preparing everything we need to be able to bury an occupied coffin in a few days’ time if that’s really what Moriarty wants. It probably is. Sherlock’s reasoning is far too good to be wrong.

And Sherlock is a marvel. I’m flabbergasted by his epiphany as to Moriarty’s message, and seeing him tap out the long sequence of binary code he planted in his brain when he visited him after the trial felt almost unreal. I’ve lived with him for so long, but watching him demonstrate his remarkable skills is still something that amazes me beyond belief.

It seems like now we’ve got everything we need to get going, but that also means we’ll have to say goodbye soon.

I wish we were at home now, in his bed, or on the couch. He could just hold me through the night, and I could forget about it all.

Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and I have been confirmed as targets by Mycroft’s “source”, but I’m not scared of Moriarty’s hitmen. Mycroft might be a cold-blooded bastard, but he’s nothing if not efficient. His boys will take them down before they’ll even be able to aim, let alone shoot. It’s weird to know that a minimum of two armed snipers are following me at all times, but I think we’re safe, all three of us. What I’m scared of is being without him for who knows how long, of having to pretend he’s dead, of not being able to contact him, talk to him,  _touch_  him.

“Are you alright?” I ask Sherlock, who’s been staring into space for the last two minutes.

He looks up and shrugs.

“Moriarty might still surprise us. I never expected Richard Brook. Who knows what else he’s got up his sleeve.”

I roll over on my stool until I’m beside him and bump his shoulder with mine.

“You’re better than him, Sherlock. Even if there  _is_  a surprise, you’ll work it out.”

He lifts one eyebrow and presses his lips together.

“I hope I won’t have to disappoint you, John. It would break my heart.”

Taking a long, deep breath, he then reaches for his phone.

“It’s time,” I say.

He nods.

\---

“Will I ever hold you again?” he says into my hair, his arms wrapped around me in a tight, tight embrace. “Tell me I will, John. Tell me.”

Moriarty hasn't replied yet, and Sherlock has been slowly starting to panic, pacing up and down the aisles of the lab, his hands clasped in front of his mouth. I know he keeps thinking about the plan, and about what will happen if Moriarty doesn't take the bait. Everything depends on this building being the stage for our play to unfold - if the setting changed, there would be no way out.

I'm holding him in my arms now, slowly getting the two of us ready for our farewell, but I can't leave him just yet. He's too upset.

I raise my head to look into his eyes.

“Don’t you lose your nerve now, Sherlock. Of course you will. I’ll wait for you. I’ll--- I’ll wait forever.”

This conversation feels a bit like a dialogue from a soppy movie, but he’s afraid, really afraid, and that is something I haven’t witnessed all too often before. I need to reassure him somehow. We’ll both have to play our roles, and I want him to focus on what’s important.

“You’ve thought of everything. We’ve got Mycroft’s men working right now to track down and observe Moriarty’s people. You’re several steps ahead of him at all times. You’ll take him down, his whole network, and we’ll clear your name, and then everything will go back to normal. Soon, Sherlock.”

I kiss his mouth, then his cheekbones, trying to memorise every angle of his beautiful face, the taste of his soft skin, the way he breathes against my lips. Despite all my pep talk, I feel sadness constricting the back of my throat. I don’t want to cry. It’s no use.

“I love you so fucking much,” I mutter instead and just kiss him again, more deeply this time, and he reciprocates immediately, his tongue slipping between my lips to play with mine.

He’s breathing heavily, his hands holding my head in a tender grasp, his long fingers caressing the nape of my neck.

“I can still feel you inside of me,” I whisper into his mouth. “It’s the closest I’ve ever been to anybody. I’ll always feel you there, no matter how long we’ll be apart. Always.”

His breath stutters on the next exhale, and when I look at him again, his eyes have turned glassy.

“No, Sherlock,” I sigh and brush his hair off his forehead. “No. There’s no need. I’ll see you soon. Okay?”

If he starts crying now, there’s no way I’ll be able to keep it together myself.

He swallows audibly.

“Okay,” he rasps and tries to smile.

I have an idea. I know that if the worst case occurs, we won’t have the opportunity to talk to each other, maybe for months, and I want to give him something to hold on to – and if I'm honest, it's just as much for me as it is for him.

“I’ll think of you every day, but especially at five o’clock. I’ll have a cup of tea and think of you, okay? No matter where you are, you know I’m here in London, thinking of you at tea time. Okay?”

He laughs then, his chest vibrating against mine, and kisses me again.

“Yes.” Kiss. “I love you, John.” Another kiss. “I love you.”

“Sherlock. I lo---.”

“Sorry! Sorry, oh my God. I--- I didn’t know--- I’m sorry. I’ll leave.”

We let go of each other.

It’s Molly. Or mostly Molly’s head, peeking through the half-open door, blushing furiously. I clear my throat. Sherlock smiles warmly, which, despite everything that happened between us today, is still a weird thing to behold.

“It’s alright. Please don’t leave. We’re sorry. This is your place, after all. We’re just guests.”

She snorts, still looking embarrassed, and enters the lab.

“You’ve never behaved like “just a guest” around here before. Why start now?” She giggles nervously. “And… I should say--- well, I’m happy for you.”

I look at my shoes, then back at Molly, and then at Sherlock. I feel uncomfortable, because I know that that’s probably not the whole truth. I’m sure she  _is_  happy, because she’s a good person, one of the best. But she’s also always been in love with him.

"Thank you," he says. "That means a lot."

He gives me a brief look that holds several messages all at once.

_You should say thank you too._

_Did I do this right?_

_I wanted to keep kissing you._

Poor Sherlock. I know what happens to his brain when there's too much input of the kind he finds difficult to process - human interaction exhausts him.  _I'm_  confused by today's events, and I can barely imagine what it must be like for him.

"Thanks, Molly," I say. "I'm sorry - I got a bit overwhelmed there. Saying goodbye, you know. Is there--- I don't know, is there maybe somewhere Sherlock and I can talk in private for a minute?"

She smiles, and I can tell she knows perfectly well that  _talking_  is the last thing on my mind right now.

She nods, however, and points to a small door at the far end of the room.

"Over there. Take your time."

\---

“I have to go now. Will you be okay?”

“Of course. I’m sorry for worrying you. It’s just nerves. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. Come here.”

I pull him close and get on my toes to press a kiss on his mouth, and he wraps his arms around my middle to hold me tight.

“Everything’s going to be alright,” I murmur.

He loosens his grip on me and smiles.

“Yes,” he whispers.

We kiss again, slowly and deeply this time, and he runs his hands up and down my back, giving me goose bumps. Then he goes slightly tense and pulls back to look at me.

“I’m yours,” he mutters. “Always.”

“I’m yours,” I repeat after him. “Always, Sherlock.”

His muscles relax again immediately.

I guess he needs the confirmation –  _I’m_  the one with the record, after all. But this is not like the relationships I had in the past, if you could call them that at all. I won’t go looking for someone new just because he’ll be away for some time. 

“I’ll be there when you come back,” I tell him and put my hands around his face. “There’s only you, Sherlock.”

It’s difficult to remember to say everything that’s important right now – we’ve got weeks, months, perhaps  _years_  (no, don’t even  _consider_  such a thing) of separation stretching out before us, and I don’t want to miss my chance to tell him everything I need him to know before I leave.

“I regret that we didn’t do this sooner, Sherlock. I’ve been blind.”

His lids flutter and he draws me even closer against himself, leaving not an inch of air between our bodies.

“Will you think about me at night?” he asks lowly.

A shiver runs down my spine.

“Yes,” I answer and hold his fiery gaze. “And they won’t be thoughts of the innocent kind.”

He exhales through his nose, loudly, and one of his hands slips down to cup my crotch, kneading me gently.

“When you touch yourself, it will be my hands pleasuring you. Just imagine it, and I’ll be there.”

My cock is surprised, but interested. But now’s not the time, and this is  _definitely_  not the place.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” I gasp. “Stop. We can’t.”

He palms my bollocks, sending jolts of confused lust through my lower body, and then lets me go again.

“I know,” he murmurs ruefully. “Sorry.”

 _Ding!_  says his phone, and he freezes in my arms. I close my eyes and press my cheek against his shoulder.

It’s time.

\---

“Hello?”

“John.”

“Hey, Sherlock, you okay?”  _Of course you are. Of course you aren’t._

“Turn around and walk back the way you came now.”

“No, I’m coming in.”  _I wish I could._  

“Just do as I ask. Please.” 

“Where are you?”  _Tell me, so I can look up and see your face._

“Look up. I’m on the rooftop.” 

“Oh God.”  _Are you scared, my love? You sound scared._

“I--- I--- I can’t come down, so we’ll--- we’ll just have to do it like this.”

“What’s going on?”  _Tell them. Tell whoever is listening in, and make them believe it. And then we’ll take them apart._

“An apology. It’s all true.”

“Wh-what?”  _It’s easy to sound incredulous, because I never believed it in the first place. Why didn’t you know that?_  

“Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty.”

“Why are you saying this?”  _I’ve always believed in you._

“I’m a fake.”

“Sherlock---”  _You’re a perfect actor, oh my. If I were Moriarty, I’d believe you. Where is Moriarty, anyway? Is he up there with you?_

“The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly… In fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes.”

“Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met--- the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?”  _Why didn’t I jump you right then and there? We’d have had so much more time._

“Nobody could be that clever.”

“ _You_  could.”  _My brilliant, brilliant man. You could._

“I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”

 _Oh God, he’s really crying now._  

“No. Alright, stop it now.”

I start to walk towards the building, but, as expected, he stops me.

“No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.”

“Alright.”  _All I want is you in my arms. This is not right. One insane man can’t be the reason for our lives to go off the rails. It’s not right._

“Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”

“Do what?”  _I’d do anything for you._

“This phone call – it’s, err… it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?”

“Leave a note when?”  _You even play your own awkwardness in the face of social conventions so perfectly._

“Goodbye, John.”

“No. Don’t.”  _Goodbye, Sherlock._

He looks down at me for what feels like forever. Then he drops the phone. I lower my arm as well.

“No… SHERLOCK!” I scream.

_I love you. I love you!_

He spreads his arms and just falls forwards and over the edge of the roof. 

\---

I play the roommate in shock exactly the way we’ve practised it, and if it looks so real even to Lestrade, who's the first person I talk to after they've taken Sherlock away, it’s probably because I  _am_  in shock, at least a little bit. There's a lot of fake blood on the sidewalk. A lot.

I don’t know what really happened on the roof and I don’t know if Moriarty was there to witness our last conversation or not. I don’t know where Mycroft’s men have taken Sherlock. It’s a  _safe house_ , Mycroft says, and it’s better if I don’t know any details.

I have to identify the body, and I’m glad that Molly is in on the plan – she doesn’t even show me the corpse, but just fills in the forms and has me sign them. Afterwards, we sit together for a while, not talking much. She holds my hand. Sweet Molly.

Lestrade gives me an awkward half-hug, his face pale, his eyes red. He likes Sherlock a lot, I know. Anderson and Donovan express their condolences as well, but I refuse to shake their proffered hands. I ask them if they’re happy, now that he’s gone. I tell them they helped with it. It gives me a dark kind of pleasure to see their faces fall. They shuffle away. I hope they won’t be able to sleep tonight.

At home, an unpleasant task awaits me. I have to tell Mrs Hudson. She cries, and I take her into my arms and rock her back and forth. She’s tiny right now, all her usual flourish gone. I allow myself a few tears then, too, and I’m not sure whether I cry because I feel so sorry for lying to Mrs Hudson and hurting her so much or because I already miss Sherlock with such intensity that I’m afraid I’ll go insane.

Everything went as planned.

How am I supposed to carry on now?

\---

“There’s all the stuff, all the science equipment. What are we going to do with that? I don’t know what needs doing. I thought we’d maybe take it to a school.”

“I--- Mrs Hudson, I can’t--- I don’t want to get rid of anything right now. Not yet, anyway.”

I’ve been thinking about that, too. Won’t it be suspicious to keep the flat exactly as it is? How long can one be  _in denial_  until people start to wonder?

“But you have to live--- in between all his things! Wouldn’t it be easier---”

“No. I mean, thank you. I really appreciate you worrying about me. But… I want to keep everything for the time being.”

She shrugs and smiles sadly.

“Alright. How are you coping, anyway?”

“I’m angry.”

I really am. How come I’m not allowed to be with the one person who matters to me? Where is he? Why can’t Mycroft help more? Why is everything so fucked up?

She pats my arm.

“It’s okay, John. There’s nothing unusual in that. That’s the way he made everyone feel,” she says, and, after a small pause: “All the marks on my table; and the  _noise_  – firing guns at half past one in the morning!”

“Yeah.”

I know she’s grieving for entirely different reasons – worse reasons than mine. I should be there for her.

“Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine – keeping bodies where there’s  _food!_ ” she continues.

“Yes,” I say, wishing I could just go home to find some more of said specimens next to the milk and shout at him about it.

“And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!”

She’s talked herself into a state of desperate rage, her eyes filling with tears. I shake my head. Poor Mrs Hudson.

“Yeah, listen, I--- I’m not actually  _that_  angry, okay?”

You shouldn’t be, either. But you aren’t, are you? You’re so, so sad. He was like a son to you.

“Okay,” she says and sniffs. “I’ll leave you alone to, erm---” Her voice breaks, and I feel like an arsehole for putting her through this. “You know,” she finishes a bit lamely. 

Then she starts to cry and walks away.

I stare at his name engraved in black marble. There are no dates. I didn’t want to add them, and, as strange as it sounds, Mycroft agreed – it would have been a bad omen. He’s not dead. He’s lost in darkness as black as his gravestone, at least to me, but he’s still alive.

“I miss you,” I whisper.

Then I put my hand on the cold stone, thinking about the stranger in the coffin. He’s helped us. Nobody asked him if he wanted to. I wonder if somebody, somewhere is missing  _him_.

“Thank you,” I say.

\---

To be honest, I thought it would be easier.

It’s been almost four months, and I haven’t heard a word from him. Mycroft keeps saying that everything’s fine, but of course I can’t contact him myself, just in case my calls are being intercepted, so I can’t do anything but  _wait_  – for another call from Mycroft, telling me there’s nothing new (“He’s alive. If he wasn’t, I’d know.”), for a sign that Sherlock is alright, for a message saying that the plan is working. I’ve got a second mobile now, a sleek, expensive-looking one that only ever gets calls from Mycroft. Molly has dubbed it the MYphone, and by now I’ve proceeded to call it that inside my head as well.

Once a week, one of Mycroft’s minions comes to search the flat for bugging devices. They take it all very seriously. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be reassured or worried.

I’ve started working at a clinic – it’s a classic, slightly boring nine-to-five, and it helps to distract me during the long, lonely days. I love being a doctor, and without him being there to give me material to write about it’s the next best thing to occupy myself with.

I haven’t abandoned the blog, though – there are many readers who are convinced that Sherlock has never been a fraud, and even though I cannot tell them the whole truth, it’s a relief to see that there are people believing in him, even if they think he’s dead. Most of them do, anyway. There are some very dedicated fans who have been coming up with theories as to him being still alive and hiding somewhere, and I’m happy to find that most of them sound like absolute lunatics. It would be a disaster if crazy conspiracists led to our cover being blown, well-meaning (and, funnily enough, halfway right) as they might be.

I’m sitting at my desk, reading through the latest comments on the blog, smiling at the sweet ones asking me how I am coping, grinning at the ones demanding JUSTICE! for Sherlock Holmes in capslocked agitation, and ignoring the ones defiling his reputation with hateful accusations. I never waste any time or energy on those – his faithful followers are always there before I am anyway, defending him with the power of their combined devotion.

The MYphone rings. As always, my heart skips a beat.

“Hello?”

“Dr Watson. This is a safe connection. You have thirty minutes.”

Before I can reply, there’s a loud click, then a crackle, and then---

“John?”

Sherlock’s voice.

I get up abruptly, then sit down again. My pulse is racing.

“Sherlock,” I whisper.

I can’t believe it’s him.

I can hear the smile in his tone when he answers.

“Hello, John. It’s me, yes. I--- God, it’s good to hear your voice. How are you?”

“I’m fine, fine, yes. Sherlock. How are  _you?_ ”

“I’m fine, too. Thank you.”

“Where are you now?”

“Colombia.”

Colombia. Oh dear.

“Is… is everything going as planned?”

“Yes. We’re getting there step by step, John.”

“Okay.”

I can’t think of anything else to say, to ask. I’ve dreamt about talking to him for so long, but now my brain is empty. We only have a few minutes – how am I supposed to make the best of that if I don’t know what to tell him?

“John.” He seems to be sensing my distress and lowers his voice to a calming murmur. “Get comfortable. Tell me what you were doing when Mycroft called you.”

I swallow, willing myself to relax. Then I get up to sit down on the couch instead. Leaning back, I close my eyes and concentrate on the sound of his breath.

“Just reading comments on the blog.”

He chuckles.

“I’ve seen those.”

“You sound proud.”

“Well, it’s nice to see that people are still believing in me.”

“They are.”

“I wish I could take you in my arms now, John. I find it difficult to express what I want to tell you with words alone.”

“Me too.”

“I miss you so much.”

“I miss you too, Sherlock. Everything about you. The whole flat still smells of you. You’re all around me every day.”

“Where do you sleep? In my bed?”

“No, I--- I couldn’t. I sleep in mine.”

“Go to my bedroom now, John.”

It doesn’t even occur to me to deny him his wish. I rise and make my way to his room, and when I’m there, I lock the door behind myself. I think I know what’s about to happen. Mrs Hudson usually knocks before entering, but who knows.

“I’m there.”

“Lie down. Put your head on my pillow. Take a deep breath.”

I do. His scent assaults my nostrils, my chest, my mind. My head starts to swim.

“I  _am_  all around you now, love… I’m there with you, holding you, caressing you everywhere… kissing your face, your closed eyes, your lips…”

He’s whispering, and I try to picture him in bed with me, his naked body lying right next to mine.

“I want to run my palms up and down your whole body, John… from your neck down to your feet and then up again, up the insides of your thighs… until I reach the place I want to touch most…”

“Mmhhh,” I moan, my fingers playing with the fly of my jeans without me telling them to, tracing the outline of my rapidly hardening cock, and Sherlock’s gift of deduction obviously doesn’t stop at long-distance calls, because he mirrors my moan and then breathes: “Take them off… Take everything off, my love…”

My breath hitching, I comply. I have to put down the phone to wriggle out of my jumper, but I’m naked in record time, and when I speak to him again, I’m already a little out of breath.

“Tell me… where you are, Sherlock,” I say. “Are you in bed?”

A faint rustle tells me he's removing items of clothing too, then his voice comes again.

“Yes…”

“Are you naked…?”

“Yes, John… and I’m  _so_  hard… Hearing you breathe is so arousing… I want you…”

I lick my lips, imagining myself kissing him slowly, deeply, with a lot of tongue. It's hot and humid in Colombia. He's probably sweating. I picture my hands gliding over his damp, slightly sticky skin. If I kissed him, I'd taste the salty sweetness that's unique to him. I’d suck it off his neck, his thighs, his cock. Oh  _God_.

“Oh, me too, Sherlock…”

“Say it, please…” he growls.

“I’m--- I'm hard for you, Sherlock… I want you to touch me now…”

I've never had phone sex before, and I have to get used to the more explicit parts, but I love the way he's coaxing it out of me. 

“Yes… My hand is on you now, John, stroking you… slowly… up and down… I’m taking my time… I love how your breath quickens, how you shiver… Mmhhh, so  _beautiful_ …”

I suck in a sharp breath when I feel the first touch of my hand on my hard, pulsing flesh, and in my mind it’s really him doing it to me, his long fingers wrapping around me with gentle pressure, his thumb playing with my tip on every upwards stroke.

“ _Fuck_ ,” I whisper. “Yes…”

He's breathing faster now.

“How does it feel…?” he asks. "Is it good?"

“Perfect…” I sigh.

“Good… Just stay in the fantasy, love… I’ll do to you whatever you want…”

“Sherlock… yes…”

“What do you need, hm…? Tell me…”

God, I need  _everything_.

“Your mouth… your---  _oh_ … your fingers…”

“Mmhhh, that was nice, yes… John… Close your eyes now… I’ll take care of you… I’m kissing down your ribs, your abdomen… Your skin is so _sweet_ …" He purrs deep down in his chest. "Oh... I’m  _so_  close to where you want it now…”

I hear him inhale, and I almost feel his breath ghost against my groin.

"Please…" I beg.

“I love your scent, John… I’m taking you in my mouth now… I’m sucking lightly…  _hmmm_ … Tell me how it feels…”

“ _Hot_ ,” I pant, thrusting into my own fist, but imagining it’s his mouth. “Wet…”

“Yes… so good… I’ve lubricated my fingers, John… I’ll push in now… okay…?”

He's panting.

“Yes, yes---  _please_ …”

He groans, and in the background I can hear slick, rhythmic sounds that can only mean one thing. Knowing that he’s talking to me while wanking off is a huge turn-on, and I stroke myself a little faster.

“Two fingers, John… oh, so  _deep_ …”

“ _Oh_  God…”

“I find your prostate and massage it with my fingertips…  _hahhh_ … I feel you shudder around me… You’re  _so_  hot, so tight… God, I love being inside you…”

“Sherlock---”

"Tell me what you want, John," he urges me on. " _Tell_  me, come on..."

" _Fuck_  me--- with your fingers," I whisper, feeling myself blush at my own words. 

He presses out a strangled moan.

"God,  _yes_ , John... I'm doing it... I'm thrusting into you, into your slick heat..."

I go faster still, tightening my grip on my cock, feeling the memory of his fingers inside of me, remembering the way his touch caused sparks to spread through my whole body, like the tingle of an impending orgasm, but much, much more intense.

I’m so close already.

“ _Yes_ ,” I gasp. “Make me come---  _please!_ ”

He utters another low, drawn-out moan, sounding like he’s right on the edge himself.

“I’m sucking hard now, John, my tongue---  _fuck_ , my tongue rubbing the spot you like, the one right under your tip… My fingers are buried deep inside you, oh  _God_ , I just keep going, faster now,  _faster_ …”

“Sherlock--- oh God, oh  _God_ , oh Sherlock, Sherlock,  _Sherlock_ \---” I whisper frantically, and even lost in my ecstasy I know that I can’t scream his name the way I want to, or else Mrs Hudson will hear.

He’s grunting, his deep voice so arousing to listen to, and I hear him speed up his strokes as well.

“Come in my mouth, John…  _Come_ now… I---  _ngh!_ \--- I want to swallow it all…”

“Sherlock,” I whimper and bite my thumb to stifle my voice. “ _Fuck!_ ”

I come, my lower body bucking upwards and off the bed, my hips thrusting into thin air, and spill myself over my chest and his sheets. I’m shaking all over, and as I moan in time with the waves pulsing through my body I hear him climax, too. He sobs, then barks out my name along with an animalistic groan that I want to,  _have_  to hear again in person one day, and then goes quiet.

Heavy breathing is all I can hear for the next minute or two – mine and his combined.

I’m completely exhausted, lying there with the phone still pressed to my ear, and slowly my heart rate returns back to normal.

“I love you,” he suddenly says and startles me out of the haze of satisfaction clouding my brain.

I smile at the ceiling and imagine my fingers carding through his thick, soft curls.

“I love you too…”

He hums, and all I want now is to put my head on his shoulder and fall asleep like that.

“You sound tired, my love.”

“Sated,” I correct him. Then I remember something and have to laugh. “Did you say  _fuck_ , by the way?” I ask him teasingly. “That’s not something you usually say…”

He huffs, and I can practically see him fidget in embarrassment.

“The heat of the moment, John,” he mutters.

“Hmmm, don’t be shy – I loved it,” I tell him, and he laughs as well.

“Time’s almost up,” he then remarks quietly.  

I sigh.

"Do you know what I miss most? Falling asleep with you. We've never done that. I wish we could crawl under the covers now and just go to sleep."

He sniffs.

"That would be lovely. One day, John."

"When?"

I sound like a child, but I don’t care. His voice sounds incredibly soft and tender when he replies: "I don't know. I'm sorry."

No, please, don’t feel bad because of me.

"It's okay. I know you can't help it."

"I'll call again if I can, John.”

"Make it soon."

"I'll try."

We’re silent for a moment, but then a thought occurs to me.

"God, Sherlock – I hope Mycroft didn't listen in."

He snorts.

"I don't think so. I think he expected something like that to happen. And if he _did_ listen in… well. I'm not ashamed of making you let go so beautifully. I'm rather proud, to be honest."

I shake my head, forgetting that he can't see me.

"You never cease to amaze me. You've hidden this part of your personality quite well for a very long time."

"Did you believe Mycroft when he claimed I was a virgin?"

The straightforward question surprises me, but I want to tell him the truth.

"Yes," I say. "Well, at least I didn't think you were very experienced. I never saw you with anybody, so I just assumed you were not interested in sex. Or… relationships."

"The last time – before  _us_ , I mean – was a very long time ago. But it was only sex, and not… making love. I've never had a lover before."

"Oh. Okay."

That’s something I didn’t expect after experiencing him in bed. He’s so loving, so passionate – am I really the first one who gets to see him like that?

"You're the first one I can be myself with. The only one, John."

Oh God. This is a rather rapid change from frenzied (albeit imaginary) fucking to, well, relationship talk. He’s being so open, and I know that it’s not easy for him to let his walls down and allow people access to his heart. I want to show him that he’s the only one for me as well.

"Sherlock... I’ve never felt like this before. If “lover” means “person I want to spend the rest of my days with”, I’ve never had a lover before, either. And I feel honoured that you chose me, of all people."

I mean it. He’s so special – being the one he wants makes me feel special, too.

“Wait a while,” he answers, sounding sober. “You might not like everything that comes with being with me like that.”

I smirk.

“Do you mean sudden bursts of gloomy boredom? Or insensitive remarks you do not even realise you’re making? Or severed limbs in the fridge? Or extreme fits of possessive behaviour-slash-jealousy? Because I think we’ve been in a relationship for years now, Sherlock, probably ever since we moved in together.”

He chuckles, and it sounds both exasperated and amused.

“Now that you put it like that…”

“The physical part is just a very pleasant bonus, Sherlock, a new facet of being with you. And I want to learn all about you in that respect too. And I don’t mean that in a sexual sense only – I want to find out if you like to cuddle, what you’re like the moment you open your eyes in the morning, if you enjoy public displays of affection or rather keep it behind closed doors… everything. I’m looking forward to finding out everything.”

He takes a loud, deep breath.

“I don’t deserve you, John.”

I roll over and cuddle up in his duvet, soaking up the faint traces of his presence still lingering in the fabric. I changed the sheets after the first time, of course, but he’s still here. This whole room is still full of  _Sherlock_ , so sweet, so intoxicating.

“Just don’t get yourself killed now, okay? I want you back here in one piece when the job is done.”

“I promise.” 

“Okay.”

“We have to say goodbye, John. Two minutes.”

“No,” I mutter, my voice muffled by his pillow. “Sherlock…”

How many times can one say  _I love you_  in two minutes?

“I love you, John. Always remember that.”

My heart is aching for him. I’ve never missed anybody this much in all my life.

“I love you, Sherlock. I miss you. Take care, okay?”

“You too. I’ll think of you. All the time.”

“Sherlock. I don’t want to hang up.”

Stay with me, please.

“John.” Did his voice just break a little? “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

\---

“Would you like to have a drink sometime?”

I stare at the pretty new nurse (Mary?) with what I’m sure is a ridiculously idiotic expression on my face, but her question has caught me completely off-guard.

“Erm,” I say and smile at her. “I---”

The truth is, I’ve looked at her before. I’m ashamed of it, and I’m glad Sherlock doesn’t know, but yes, I’ve looked at her, and I’ve thought about what it would be like to take her out. It was only a thought, mind you, but I feel bad nonetheless.

He’s been gone for almost a year (Colombia was only the start of a journey that has been taking him almost around the whole globe), and all I have to look back upon are _three_ calls, two of which ended in phone sex, which was, in itself, not a bad thing, but definitely not enough. It’s all far from enough.

I feel like I’m standing still while the earth is moving around me – my life is stuck on pause, and all I have to break the monotony are sporadic calls or visits from Mycroft and, even more sporadically, the sound of Sherlock’s voice, coming from God knows where and only ever staying with me for half an hour at the longest.

It’s not only the absence of physical contact that’s slowly wearing me out. It’s also the fact that I can’t talk to him whenever I feel like it, that he’s not there when I need to vent my anger at annoying patients, or when I need comforting because there are people I just can’t save.

Whenever he calls, we really  _talk_  – it’s not superficial, and afterwards I feel better. But this condensed form of communication doesn’t quench my longing for ordinary, everyday interaction. We don’t eat together, and we don’t fall asleep listening to each other’s breathing. He’s not really a part of my life right now, even though I feel him in every fibre of my being, all the time. He’s like a constant ache sitting behind my ribs, somewhere in the vicinity of my heart.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about what would have been if I hadn’t forced him to tell me about the plan. I wouldn’t live at Baker Street anymore – I wouldn’t have been able to bear being reminded of him every day. I wouldn’t know he’s out there somewhere. I would visit his grave to put fresh flowers on it, and cry a bit, and miss him a lot, and then I’d go back to my pathetic life of grief and solitude and die a little more inside each day. How could he ever consider that way to be the right one? How  _could_  he? He would have killed me with it.

I miss him terribly, but I’m also so angry at him.

And I’m so lonely. 

“Oh, you know--- forget about it, okay? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

She smiles, not the slightest bit embarrassed. She’s tough. And she’s really very, _very_ pretty. But she’s about to go.

“No, I--- I’m sorry,” I hasten to say. “I--- Yes, why not? Maybe tonight, after work?”

She raises her eyebrows in what looks like pleasant surprise.

“Oh, okay. The Kings Head? Around seven?”

“Sure.”

I nod, and she grins at me, her blue eyes sparkling in the ugly neon light of the clinic’s coffee room.

“Great. I’m Mary.”

“I know. I mean--- hi. I’m John.”

I’m stammering. She laughs.

“I know. See you later then, John.”

I nod and look after her when she leaves.

“Yeah. See you later.”

…

What the fuck have I just done?


	2. Chapter 2

I’m on my way to the pub, determined to put all my cards on the table right away and tell her that I’m sorry, that it was a mistake, that I’m a fucking idiot, but before I get there, the MYphone rings.

I groan and fish it out of my pocket. Perfect timing. As if my guilty conscience could get any bigger.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Dr Watson.” It’s Mycroft’s silky voice. “I have a message from the prodigal son. He wants you to know that he always remembers tea time. Whatever that might mean. I trust you can decipher that code.”

Could you  _feel_  my betrayal of your love, Sherlock? Across miles and miles of land and ocean? I’m an arsehole. I deserve feeling like one right now.

“I can. Thank you. Is he alright?”

“He is. He won’t be able to contact us for a while, but he says not to worry. Everything is still progressing according to plan – it’s just taking a little longer than we anticipated.”

“Okay.”

There’s really nothing else I can think of to say.

“That’s all for now… Oh, wait, no. There’s one more thing. Have fun at the pub, Dr Watson.”

“What--- Are you spying on me?”

My heart starts to hammer in my chest, and I look around myself as if expecting to find Mycroft standing at the next corner, watching me. There’s no one, of course.

“For your own protection. And, it seems, for the protection of my brother’s heart.” He doesn’t sound silky anymore. He sounds dangerous. “If you hurt him, Dr Watson, you will have to answer to me. And you won’t like that. I promise you.”

Wow. So he’s discovered that he loves his little brother after all. And I feel like I’ve been caught red-handed, even though nothing happened. (Did you _want_ something to happen? Did you, John?)

“I--- It’s just a drink with a colleague.”

“Fine.”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“Goodbye, Dr Watson.”

He ends the call before I can reply.

\---

“Listen, I--- I feel stupid. But there’s something I need to say.”

“Okay?”

We’re standing in front of the pub, but I can’t let this go any further without telling her that this is not what she thinks it is.

“I’m--- Do you know who I am? Who I was, I mean, before I started working at the clinic?”

She grimaces.

“I admit that I do, yes. Might have done a bit of googling.”

I nod.

“I--- We were together, you know. Me and him.”

Okay. It’s out.

“Oh,” she says, her eyes going wide.

“Yeah. And it’s--- I just--- I can’t. I’m not open for anything new yet. It’s too early.”

I don’t mind her knowing. He deserves that I tell her the truth – or the closest thing to the truth that I can. The look of surprise on her face changes into one of pity.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

I shake my head.

“Nobody knew.”

She fidgets with the clasp of her handbag.

“I--- Thank you for telling me. I’ll keep it to myself.”

“Thanks.”

We’re silent for a moment, but then she clears her throat and smiles at me.

“Well. Do you still want to have that drink? You look like you could use one, to be honest.”

I smirk and rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. I feel a little better already, but she’s right.

“Yeah. God, I really could.”

\---

One drink becomes two drinks, then three. We talk about Sherlock - something I haven’t done in ages, at least not like this. For obvious reasons I can’t talk to Molly about him and me, and Mycroft… well. It goes without saying.

But talking to Mary is easy, even though I have to pretend that he’s dead.

I tell her how much I miss him, of how everything reminds me of him, and of my loneliness. And it’s all real – I know he’s alive, but he’s not here, and that hurts just the same. It feels so good to let it all flow out of my system.

"He always used up all the milk, but he'd never go to the shop to stock up, and now I always have milk, but I hate it, you know? I sometimes get teary-eyed looking at the fucking  _milk_  in the fridge."

That's a true story. I'd give anything to fight over the stupid milk again.

She stares at me in wonder.

"What?" I ask.

“You’re still so in love with him,” she says, sounding almost awed by it. “That’s so beautiful. And so  _sad_.”

I chuckle.

"I am. And yeah, it is."

She blushes.

"Sorry, I didn't mean---"

"It's okay,” I interrupt her. “It  _is_  sad. But it's alright."

She shrugs.

"He was very lucky to have you, John."

"I was lucky to have him, too. He saved me when I'd given up on myself after coming back from Afghanistan. He… made me feel alive again. I owe him everything."

Why am I telling her all this? I don’t even talk to my friends about things like that. I don't even  _know_  her.

She smiles, and it looks kind and slightly mischievous, and very sweet. It makes me feel all warm inside. Careful now.

"I hope one day I'll find someone who'll talk about me like that."

She takes a sip of her wine and winks at me. This gives me a little jolt of excitement, but I think it's mostly out of habit. She’s charming. I used to love flirting, and Mary would have been exactly the type of woman I would have gone for.

But that was then. Now I'm lonely, yes, and I crave a bit of the famous "human touch", but I'd never do something about it. I promised him I'd wait for him, and wait I will. As long as it takes. 

We’re just talking, Mary and I.

"You'll find that person. I'd be surprised if you didn't," I tell her, and that's when she leans forward in her chair and tries to kiss me.

I move my head to the side to avoid a collision and take hold of her shoulders to gently push her away. She smells of perfume and wine, and she’s beautiful.

"No," I say quietly. "I  _mean_  it. I'm sorry."

She bites her lip and looks at the floor, and I wonder if I might have sent out misleading signals. She looks a little drunk, but not drunk enough to forget herself, so she probably thought it was worth a shot. Perhaps she sensed the physical attraction that I can’t deny I’m feeling. Maybe she’s just looking for a bit of fun. I should never have agreed to this.

I gaze out of the window and sigh.

On the other side of the road, a CCTV camera slowly turns its cold eye away. I suppress the sudden urge to give it the finger.

\---

Back at home, I pour myself a glass of whisky and slump down on the couch.

Enjoying the buzz of the alcohol softening the edges of everything I’m feeling right now, I think about telling Sherlock about Mary, but then remember that I can’t. Who knows when I’ll be able to talk to him again? In one month? Two? Six?

Then I ask myself if I  _should_  tell him at all. What would I say?

“A woman tried to kiss me today, and for a second I wanted her to. Because you’re not here, and because I sometimes get angry at you for things you didn’t do, but almost did.”

What good would it do if he knew? Would I feel better afterwards? Would he understand? Or would he leave me?

I’d die if he left me. He's my life.

 _Nothing_  happened – why do I feel so guilty?

I wish he was here.

The MYphone rings again.

_You've got to be kidding me._

I pick up, already vibrating with rage. Who does he think he is, watching my every move? 

“Mycroft. What now?”

“Dr Watson. I gather you had a pleasant evening with your friend.”

“Get to the point. You already know how the evening went.”

“Yes. And I’d like to explain my reasons to you. Do you know what would happen if Sherlock stopped believing in your… let’s call it  _friendship_ , shall we?”

“I know that for one thing, it’s none of your concern, and for another thing, he won’t ever have a reason to do so.”

“Oh, but it  _is_  of my concern. Because,  _John_ , if he stopped believing you’ll be there to welcome him home, there’d be nothing left to keep him from becoming either reckless or indifferent when it comes to valuing his own life. Considering the circumstances he finds himself in at the moment, both could lead to the most dreadful outcomes.”

“Fuck you, Mycroft. I’d never betray his trust, and you know it.”

My own brain laughs at me at that. He doesn’t have to know how close you came to doing exactly that tonight, right, John?

“Very well. I felt compelled to explain myself. I wasn’t sure whether you’re aware of the role you play in my brother’s life.”

“Touching.”

“If you think about it, it really is.”

“I’ll hang up now.”

“Sleep well.”

I end the call and get up to get the whisky from the kitchen, and then I take it to his bedroom, where I lie down on top of the covers and drink straight from the bottle until I fall asleep in my wrinkled clothes, surrounded by memories of a night long, long ago.

\---

Nineteen months.  _Nineteen._

Russia. India. Tibet. France. Germany. What’s next?

If I didn’t know that he’s not dead, this would probably be the time around which I’d either start to have obscene amounts of casual sex, become an alcoholic, or just end it all and kill myself.

I’m so sad sometimes that I can’t understand how my heart is still beating.

He says he’s coming home soon.

What is soon, I ask him. Are we talking about weeks? Months? How many months?

He says he doesn’t know. He begs me to be patient, to trust him.

I work a lot to distract myself, and it helps a little, even though it’s been awkward between Mary and me ever since that disastrous date that wasn’t one after all. 

I feel guilty – for going behind Sherlock’s back, but also for getting Mary’s hopes up in vain. I can’t understand how I could let it get that far in the first place. I have no idea what I hoped to achieve by going out with her. I wouldn’t have cheated on him. Well. I don’t  _think_  I’d have cheated on him. I told her about him right away, didn’t I?

The last time he called, there was no talking, and no sex. I lay on my bed and cried, and he was there, listening to me, murmuring into my ear that it will be alright, that he loves me so much, that he’s so, so sorry. 

We used up all our time like that.

\---

“Dr Watson. I’m about to go to the airport. I’m going to Serbia to get Sherlock. I won’t be in touch for a while.”

Get Sherlock. My pulse accelerates immediately.

“Is he in trouble?”

There’s a small pause, in which I sense him weighing the pros and cons of letting me in on the details.

“He’d probably manage on his own, but I don’t want to take any risks,” he eventually says. “And he’s been gone long enough, don’t you think?”

Ah. That’s where you’re coming from, Mycroft. I see.

“You need him for something, don’t you? Something you can’t do on your own. And there I was, for a moment really considering that you actually cared. How stupid of me.”

“You underestimate the complexity of the motives I’m capable of. Can’t it be both?”

I picture him smiling his sly, reptilian smile, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth just like his brother often does. Looking at Sherlock, the gesture makes me envy the fingertips resting gently against his beautiful lips. When Mycroft does it, it only gives me a chill.

“No,” I snap. “It can’t. It  _shouldn’t_.”

“Either way, the result will be the same. When he’s back, he’ll be safe, and there’ll be work for him to do, which he’ll enjoy. You know what he’s like. And you and I, Dr Watson, will have a person we both hold very dear back in our lives. And don’t you doubt for  _one_  second that I’ve been worrying just as much as you have. I worry  _constantly_.”

That’s the closest he’s ever come to openly admitting to me what Sherlock means to him. But I’m still angry.

“It’s been almost two years now. Why didn’t you “get him” half a year ago, then?”

“Because his mission was important. For him, for me, for you even. For Britain, for the world.”

“But---”

“I  _asked_  him. Several times. Do you want to abort, Sherlock? We can have you out of there in a matter of days. He always declined. He knew what he was getting himself into, and he chose to do it, because it  _had_  to be done. There’s nothing I – or  _you_  – could have said to convince him otherwise.”

The last remark hits me like a kick in the gut, because I know it’s true. Not even I could have gotten him to stop, and that knowledge hurts, even though the rational part of my mind knows why he had to do it.

The fucking  _greater good_.

I stay mute. I know he’s right.

You have to hand it to Mycroft – he won’t bring you down and then stomp on you. He knows he’s won this argument, but he doesn’t gloat.

“I’ll be back in a few weeks,” he says, and his voice sounds much softer now. “It might take some time to get to him. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me – I won’t be able to communicate once I’m there.”

I sigh.

“Can I help? I’m a soldier, after all. I haven’t forgotten my training yet.”

He hums as if in acknowledgement of my offer.

“I know. But no, thank you. He’d never forgive me if I put you in danger.”

I snort, and before I realise that I might be going too far with it, I ask: “And you’re expendable?”

He chuckles at that. I’ve never heard him make that sound before.

“No, I dare say I’m not. But if he had to choose, we both know whom he’d pick.”

“Mycroft---”

“No,” he interrupts me again. “It’s noble of you to ask, but I’ll have help. There’s no need to worry. I’ll let you know when we’ll arrive back in London as soon as I can.”

“Thank you,” I say, and mean it.

“I’m doing this for Sherlock. But you’re welcome,” he replies.

I purse my lips, wondering if I should say what’s on my mind. Then I just do. Whatever’s happening in Serbia right now, it’s highly probable that it’s not good.

“I--- Please take care.”

There’s a tiny surprised pause, but he gets himself together again rather quickly.

“You’ll have him back, safe and sound, in no time at all.”

“I meant---”

Yet again, he doesn’t let me finish.

“I know what you meant. Thank you, John. I have to go now. Goodbye.”

“Okay. Goodbye.”

I stare at the phone in my hand, and keep doing so long after we ended the call. Despite his annoying habit of outsmarting and continuously interrupting me, I think I’m getting attached to Mycroft Holmes. Who would have thought.

I grin to myself.

Sherlock’s going to hate it.

\---

What follows are the ten longest weeks of my life. It’s ridiculous, really – I’ve waited for almost two years, so a few weeks more or less shouldn’t matter, but if time’s been going slow so far, it’s now barely shuffling past. Every minute stretches into infinity while I listen for the phone, for the doorbell, for something to happen – I don’t even know what.

In the first two months after Mycroft’s departure, I hear nothing of him or Sherlock. I try not to worry – he said he wouldn’t be in touch, after all. Everything’s alright. He’s bringing him home.

I’m looking forward to quitting my job at the clinic as soon as Sherlock returns. Helping people fulfils me in a way, but it’s so dull most of the time. I can’t do this for the rest of my life. I want my old life back. I miss it so much that sometimes, on bad days, even my tremor comes back.

Lestrade visits me one rainy Saturday afternoon and brings me a small white box. He says it’s “some stuff” from his office – “some stuff of Sherlock’s, actually.” He looks so uncomfortable that I feel terrible for not telling him right away that it’s all been a hoax. Soon, Greg. Soon you’ll know the truth.

We have a cup of tea together and chat about work, his wife, the weather, but he leaves soon afterwards. He doesn’t know how to behave around me, and I can relate. What do you say to a man supposedly mourning his best friend, his partner, the love of his life?

When he’s gone, I slide the DVD from the box into my laptop’s CD drive and click play. I’m not prepared for the onslaught of emotions when his face, his lanky body, his nervous gestures appear on the screen. I take a deep breath and lean back in my chair.

“Was that supposed to happen – the light going down? Yeah, okay.”

God, his voice. My whole body is covered in goose bumps immediately.

He’s pacing up and down in front of the couch.

“Oh, err, mmhhh. So, what do I--- what do I--- what do you want me to do at the end? Shall I, umm… smile and wink; I do that sometimes. I’ve no idea why. People seem to like it – humanises me.”

Lestrade’s voice: “Fine. Whatever.” (He already sounds so  _done_.)

And Sherlock: “Why am I doing this, again?”

“You’re gonna miss the dinner.”

“Of  _course_  I’m gonna miss dinner. There’ll be  _people_.” He’s such a wanker. “How can John be having a birthday dinner? All his friends hate him. You only have to look at their faces. I wrote an essay on suppressed hatred in close proximity based entirely on his friends.” Definitely the  _biggest_  wanker that ever walked the earth. “On reflection, it probably wasn’t a very good choice of gift.” But I still kept it. Because I love you, you idiot.

For a moment, he looks straight into the camera, and our eyes meet. It gives me a pang. Then he addresses Lestrade.

“ _What_  was my excuse again?”

“You said you had a thing.”

“Ah, right, yes! That’s right. A thing.”

“You might wanna elaborate.”

“No, no, no. Only lies have detail.”

He’s staring into the camera again. It’s unsettling.

“Right, I just--- I need a moment to, um, figure out what I’m going to do.”

He turns and walks towards the window. I realise that I even miss the way he moves.

“I can tell you what you can do,” I mutter, looking at the same window for a second before directing my gaze at the laptop again. “You can get the fuck back home, stat.”

“Okay,” he answers, looking me in the eyes – no, no,  _what?_  No, John. Of course he didn’t answer. It’s a coincidence. I shake my head. He’s already turned away again.

“Okay, I’m ready now,” he says, sits down in his chair, and looks into the camera. “Hello, John. I’m sorry I’m not there at the moment. I’m very busy. However, many happy returns.”

He’s smiling, but it’s nothing like the smiles he gave me when we were in bed together. Why did he always feel he had to hide himself behind his mask of indifference, even when it was only the two of us? Was he so scared that I’d reject him? Hurt him? Was he careful because he thought he wasn’t safe with me? He says he’s been in love with me for a long time – when did it all start?

“Oh, and don’t worry. I’m going to be with you again very soon,” he adds.

The he smiles and winks.

I snap the laptop shut, my heart beating in my throat. I thought watching this would be easier.

Why doesn’t Mycroft finally  _call?_

\---

He does call eventually, at the beginning of the third month. He’s got him. But he’s in hospital.

“ _What?_  What happened? Is he alright? Can I---”

My pulse is racing, nausea rising up inside my guts. He’s hurt. Oh God.

“John, calm down. It’s nothing life-threatening. He just needs time to heal.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s been… wounded. He’ll tell you everything as soon as we get back to London.”

What does that ominous pause mean? How “wounded” is he really?

“When will that be?”

“In two weeks, maybe three.”

That’s much too long. I can’t wait anymore. All my strength is gone.

“Can I talk to him?”

“Not right now, no. I’m sorry. The doctors have put him on painkillers. He is, to use his own words, completely “shitfaced” at the moment. He loves it, as you can imagine. He’s not fit to talk.”

I need to hear your voice, Sherlock.

“Please tell him to call me as soon as he’s feeling better. Please, Mycroft.”

“Of course.”

I rub my hand across my face, feeling my composure crumble.

“Just bring him home. I--- I can’t. I’ve got enough. I--- I think I’ve reached my limit. I’m  _sorry_ \---”

My voice breaks and I swallow down the tears rising up inside of me. I can’t break down now. Not in front of Mycroft.

He is silent for a long time, giving me the chance to collect myself. Eventually, he speaks again, and he sounds softer and more human than ever before.

“I know. Hold on just a little longer. A few weeks. It’s almost done.”

He sounds confident, and I cling to his words and try to believe them. Mycroft will do what he does, and everything will be alright. Soon.

“Okay.”

“Good. I have to go now, John. I’ll give your message to Sherlock. He’ll be in touch shortly.”

“Thank you.”

“Goodbye, John.”

“Goodbye.”

\---

Three days later, the MYphone rings in the middle of the night, jerking me out of a light, restless sleep. I grunt and fumble around in the dark until I find the phone and then, squinting, locate the green button to answer the call.

“Yes,” I grumble and clear my throat. “Hello?”

“John.”

It’s Sherlock. But he doesn’t sound like himself at all. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I know that something is wrong. I’ve been waiting for this call for days, but this is not like I imagined it would be. I was looking forward to hearing his voice, longing for him to calm my frayed nerves with words of reassurance. Now there’s panic in how he says my name, and my heart sinks.

“Sherlock. Hey. Are you okay?”

“John,” he repeats, and his breathing accelerates. “ _John._ ”

“Sherlock, love, what’s wrong?” I’m fully awake now, and worried out of my mind. “Tell me, Sherlock, come on.”

“I had a--- nightmare,” he mutters, and there are tears in his voice. “I--- I’m so  _scared_ , John…”

“Sherlock, I’m there, okay? Just keep talking to me. Everything’s going to be alright.”

He doesn’t answer, but I can hear him sob lowly – it sounds muffled, like he’s stifling the sounds of his crying with a pillow.

“Sherlock,” I say. “What did you dream about?”

“Bad--- bad things, John… Bad  _people_ …”

“Close your eyes, love… I’m there with you… I’m holding you in my arms, Sherlock… I’m protecting you, okay? No one’s going to hurt you anymore…”

I’m rambling, but it’s all I can do. I’ve seen him cry before, but I’ve never heard him sob as desperately as this, and it’s breaking my heart that I’m not with him now, that my voice is the only thing I have to keep him from falling apart.

“My love, you’ll be okay… It’s over now… You’ve done it… You--- You’ve been so brave… You’ve done so much… When you’re back with me, I’ll take care of you… You’ll be allowed to rest then, Sherlock…”

“John…”

He sounds so small.

“Yes, baby, I’m here. Calm down now… Just breathe with me, okay? Just breathe. It’ll be alright,” I tell him – and myself.

“It  _hurts_  so much, John…” he whimpers.

“What hurts, love?”

“Everything…”

My poor Sherlock. God, how I wish I could take it all away.

“Can’t they give you something for the pain?”

He sighs loudly.

“Valium drip…”

That’s good. And fast.

“Can you adjust it yourself?”

“Yes…”

“Then turn it up a little bit.”

“Hmm. Okay.”

I give him a moment, listening to him move around on a creaking hospital bed. I want to get him out of there. He should be with me now. I’d take care of him.

“Is it getting better?” I ask after a minute, and he hums softly.

“You… Need  _you_ …”

My stomach clenches – I’m completely useless. I should have convinced Mycroft to let me come with him.

“God, I--- I wish I could be there for you now, Sherlock… I’m  _so_  sorry I’m not with you…”

I hear him sniff.

“Ssstay… sleep…” he slurs.

The Valium is kicking in.

“Yes,” I whisper soothingly. “I’ll stay. You can fall asleep now, love… I’ll watch over you. I’ll hold you all through the night.”

“Johnnn…”

“Shhh, baby…  _Sleep_  now… I love you… I love you…”

He grumbles and shifts, the bedclothes rustling at the other end of the line, and then I hear his breathing even out. He’s falling asleep.

I listen to him inhale and exhale in a slow, steady rhythm, my eyes closed, my cheek pressed against my pillow, and imagine him in bed with me.

“I love you,” I repeat, barely audibly. “Sherlock. I love you.”

I breathe with him.

In. Out. In. Out. In. Out...

After about half an hour, I allow myself to fall asleep as well, the phone still propped against my ear.

\---

I call in sick the next morning, not feeling like facing the world and acting as if I was alright.

From the moment I woke up, I’ve been thinking about how little I’ve actually thought about what exactly it is that Sherlock’s been up to for the last two years. Sure, I’ve been worried about him, scared that something might happen, that he could be injured, or worse, but I’ve never really wondered what it is that he’s doing. Plotting, waiting. Hunting down Moriarty’s men. Hurting people. Being hurt. Killing people.

Trying not to get killed himself.

The way he broke down last night opened my eyes to the fact that I’ve been behaving like a childish, self-absorbed git.

He’s left me alone, yes. I’ve missed him terribly, yes. He almost didn’t tell me, and the thought alone is killing me, yes. But what about him? He risked his health, his life out there, and he was alone, too. I wonder if he’s been traumatised by whatever it was that he had to endure, and I hope he’ll open up when he gets home so that I can assess the situation a little better.

To think I went on a fucking  _date_  while he was putting himself in danger for my sake! I’m ashamed of myself.

I resolve to tell him all that when he comes back – I can’t base this relationship on lies. It’s too important. I’ll just have to hope that he forgives me for being so stupid, so blind.

Please, Sherlock.

Forgive me.

\---

He calls again two days later, and this time, there’s Mycroft in the background, too. They’re bickering.

“John, you’re a doctor – tell my brother that I can go home.”

“I don’t even know what’s wrong with you, Sherlock.”

“It’s nothing. Just a few scratches on my back.” Mycroft huffs and mutters something under his breath, but Sherlock talks over him. “I can lie around on my stomach at home, too. And you can monitor the healing process, John. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t take the next flight to London. I happen to know that’s there’s one this afternoon.”

He exhales dramatically, and I wonder where the small, frightened boy from a few nights ago is right now. Is he gone? Or just hiding?

“Are the wounds infected?” I’m trying for a very improvised telediagnosis. “Are you running a fever?”

“No. Not  _that_  kind of fever, anyway.”

I can hear the leer in his voice and roll my eyes. Mycroft groans.

“Are you still high?” I ask drily, and he laughs.

“I had stitches, and there’s no bleeding. I’m  _okay_. I want to go home,” he then says, serious again. “Please.”

“Well, I don’t see why you shouldn’t, then. Mycroft’s going to have to carry your suitcase, though. You’re not allowed to lift heavy things.”

“His face says he’d love to carry my suitcase.”

I don’t think it does.

But that’s not important. Sherlock’s coming home. Mycroft’s resigned sigh tells me that he’s given up, and I feel my heart threaten to jump out of my throat. He’s coming home.

Finally.

\---

It’s Friday night.

I’m not allowed to pick them up from the airport. Mycroft says he’s got a car waiting for them, and that we should meet at the flat. Less suspicious. Sherlock wants to stay under the public’s radar for a while – no need to let everyone know that he’s back before he’s up to his former strength.

I’m happy about that, since it will give us more time to concentrate on each other before all media hell breaks loose. He’s still famous, and coming back from the dead will make him the focus of interest for the weeks to come. The later that happens, the better.

While I wait for them to arrive, I clean the flat. I go to the shops. I put fresh sheets on both our beds. I cook chicken curry and put it in the fridge to be warmed over later. I try to watch TV. I take a shower.

Time’s ticking by at its slowest pace  _ever_.

I’ve been pacing the living-room for the better part of an hour when I hear the key turn in the lock downstairs. My heart begins to pound, but I try to keep myself in check. It might be Mrs Hudson. But no, there are footsteps on the stairs now, climbing up slowly. Two people.

I’m rooted to the spot, not even able to open the door for them.

Another key, another clicking lock.

And then he’s there.

“Hello, John,” he says.

His smile is tired, but warm.

The room starts to spin around me.

“Sherlock,” I mouth, but no sound comes out.

He looks at me with a mixture of concern and amusement and takes a step towards me.

“I’m going to hug you now,” he tells me. “Don’t hug back. My stitches…” He trails off and shrugs.

I nod, still speechless.

He grins that insanely attractive lopsided grin of his and closes the distance between us. His arms come up and around me, and I stand there, completely paralysed, and let it happen. He sighs deeply and presses his mouth against my ear, then my temple, then my mouth. When I don’t reciprocate, he smiles and bumps his forehead against mine.

“My lips are not injured, you know,” he whispers.

I glance over his shoulder to where Mycroft is standing, still half-hidden behind the doorframe. He’s obviously not eager to witness this reunion – or he just wants to give us some privacy.

“Okay," I finally say.

Then I kiss him, and everything falls back into place.

\---

Mycroft doesn't stay, but leaves after carrying Sherlock's suitcase into his bedroom with a very pointed, humourless smirk. I guess that now, with everything going its normal way again and his little brother not being in imminent danger anymore, he's back to his old self. It's strangely comforting to know that not that much has changed.

I thank him nevertheless, for everything, and he smiles then, briefly and out of Sherlock's field of vision.

"Enjoy your evening," he says before stepping into the hallway, his cheek twitching, and for a short, crazy moment I wonder if he's going to wink at me.

He's not.

Standing side by side by the window, we watch him being taken away into the night in his big black car and then look at each other. It's a bit awkward. I know him so well, so intimately, and yet it almost feels like we’re strangers right now.

"I--- You don't look any different," he says after a minute of studying my face, apparently thinking about the exact same thing, and brushes my jaw with his fingers. 

"You do," I reply, because he does. "You're so thin. We'll have to feed you."

He smiles.

"To be honest, I could eat now. I've only had breakfast today."

I gape at him.

"I think this is the first time in all of our acquaintance that you ask me for food. I normally have to pester you to eat."

He nods. 

"Is there any chicken curry left?"

I have to grin. It doesn't need a super brain to deduce the presence of that particular dish in the kitchen - the whole flat smells of it.

"I made it for you," I say.

He smiles and gives me a small kiss on my cheek.

"I know," he whispers.

\---

We eat. He’s not speaking much in between bites, and as I watch him chew and go _Mmhhh!_ and enjoy his food with almost boyish enthusiasm I wonder when it was that he had his last real meal. I’m not brave enough to ask, though, and I don’t want to interrupt the peace and quiet of the scene.

After dinner, I convince him to lie down on his bed to let me examine his back.

I can't help but gasp in shock when I remove his bandages and see the stitched-up gashes and cuts littering his once so smooth and unblemished skin.

"What happened, Sherlock?" I ask, my voice quavering. "Please tell me. I--- I've been wondering ever since Mycroft told me he was going to Serbia to get you."

He hesitates for a long moment, but eventually turns his head towards me and sighs.

"They caught me. I was trying to sneak into their headquarters, but I wasn't careful enough. Of course they were very interested in finding out who I was, and if I was part of a larger organisation. When I didn't speak, they tried to... persuade me."

I swallow. Images of him being caned, bleeding, screaming in pain appear in front of my inner eye, and my whole body turns cold. I feel bile rising up inside of me.

"They tortured you," I state lowly, because it feels as if the way he's describing it doesn't do the severity of his injuries justice.

He nods, seemingly indifferent to it all.

"Yes."

"Did you tell them something then?"

God, I hope they didn't break your will. I couldn't bear it.

"I didn't have to," he replies. "Mycroft's timing was impeccable."

"I hope he killed all of them," I say without thinking.

He looks surprised at how cold, how  _cruel_  my voice sounds, and I find that I’m surprised at it myself. I'm torn between a feeling of raging, mindless hate for the people who did this to him and a confused sense of disgust at myself because all I want right now is bloody, merciless revenge.

"He... did,” he answers slowly. “Or at least he saw to it that  _someone_  did."

I clench my jaw. "Good."

"John,” he says carefully. “Don't waste your strength on that now."

He sounds so calm, so at peace with everything, and I want to shout at him to be more upset, to allow himself the fury, the pain - he deserves it! He's been wronged!

I jump up from the chair I've positioned next to his bed and ball my hands into fists.

"I--- How can you not be angry?  _Look_  at you! Look at what they did to you!" I exclaim.

" _John_." He sounds irritated now. "Calm down. What's wrong?"

I'm very aware that my guilty conscience is eating away at me, and that this is why I'm freaking out now, but I'm not ready to admit it yet.

"They--- they hurt the man I love! What the  _fuck_  do you think is wrong?" I bark. That’s at least half of the truth.

"John, stop it." He looks at me and pushes his upper body off the bed, supporting himself on his forearms. "I’m  _okay_. Tell me what's  _really_  bothering you."

I rub my face with my hands and groan. I'm mad at myself for losing it like this, and for letting him sense that my despair over seeing him wounded is not the real reason, or at least not the only one, why I'm so upset now.

 _Fine_.

It had to come out eventually. Better to get it over with right away.

"A few months ago, I had a fucking  _date_ , Sherlock," I spit, hating myself, determined to keep looking at his face even though the shock, the incomprehension now visible in his expression is the most terrible thing I've ever seen. "A woman I know from work asked me out and I said yes, because I was angry at you for almost not telling me about your plan, and because I was lonely, and--- and who  _knows_ , maybe you were running from someone or--- or cold, or hungry, or being beaten up at  _exactly_  the same time she tried to fucking  _kiss_  me, and I--- I feel like shit!"

He's quiet for a long time, lying there motionless, staring at me. I can't read his eyes.

"Did you... sleep with her?" he asks after what feels like a small eternity.

His voice sounds weirdly metallic, all warmth gone from his tone.

"No!" I sputter. "Of course I didn't! Nothing happened!"

He doesn't answer, just keeps looking at me with this dark, empty gaze. I try to fill the silence with more words, to make him stop looking like that, to make him believe me.

"Before we even entered the pub, I told her about being with you, about what we were before you "died", and about missing you so much… We had a few drinks, and we talked. It felt so good to talk about you, Sherlock. I told her there'd never be anybody else for me but you. I thought she understood. But she--- I think she had too much to drink, and she--- she tried to kiss me, but I pushed her away and left soon after. I regret going so much, Sherlock – I don't know why I said yes! I--- I never meant for it to mean anything - I'd never cheat on you! I--- I love you!"

He presses his lips together and looks away, sinking back onto the mattress.

"You've got an interesting way of showing it," he mutters.

"Sherlock, please." I sit down again. I want to touch him, but I don't dare to. "I was being stupid,  _terribly_  stupid - I'm so sorry. Please forgive me.  _Please_."

He sniffs, his chin resting on his fist, his eyes fixed on a point straight ahead of him.

"I was lonely, too, you know. I missed you so much it hurt sometimes. It hurt more than any kind of physical torture ever could. And I only ever had your safety in mind - _especially_  before I told you about the plan. I was trying to protect you. I--- I don't know how else to explain this to you so that you'll understand! You're all that's important to me! I was only able to do what I did because I knew you'd be here, safe, waiting for me!" He’s losing his composure, and I’m almost happy that he is – it’s better than this cold, hard, disappointed voice. “And you said you’d wait for me! You--- you  _promised_ _!_ ”

My heart breaks at this. I promised, yes. And I betrayed his trust.

"Sherlock, I--- I feel so bad. I don’t know what to say. I'm sorry! Please… don't leave me. I couldn't--- I can't live without you."

Everything I say sounds silly and meaningless. How do I tell him that he’s all that matters to me? How do I beg for forgiveness so that he will grant it? He’s taking much too long to reply. I'm more scared than ever before. Am I going to lose him now, so shortly after I got him back? 

"I don't want to leave you, John," he says at last, and a heavy weight I never realised I've been carrying is lifted from my shoulders.

I breathe deeply, trying not to break down and cry. I'm so relieved.

"Thank you," I sigh and bury my face in my hands. " _God_. Thank you."

He clears his throat and then asks: "Why did you tell me? You didn't have to. I'd never have known."

I look up again and shake my head.

"I couldn't keep it from you. Not because you'd deduce it anyway - and you would. I told you because I don't want anything to stand between us. It would have been like lying to you, and I--- I couldn't do that. You're too important to me. I don’t have the words to tell you  _how_  important. This is the most important thing in my life, Sherlock. This, us,  _is_  my life. I don't want to fuck it up.” Looking at his profile, I can see him smirk bitterly. “I know I almost did," I add.

Finally, he turns his head and meets my eyes again.

“I know you suffered, John. Don’t you think I don’t know. You never knew if the last call would be  _the_  last, and you never knew where exactly I was… and what I was doing. I understand that you needed somebody to talk to,” he says lowly.

“Sherlock---” I start, but he interrupts me.

“No, let me finish. It hurts me that you--- that you went out with that woman, and that she tried to take you away from me. It hurts me so much because you’re the first person I’ve ever--- You--- John, you’re the  _only_  one. You’ll _always_ be the only one. I’m sure of that. I don’t want to lose you. But if you ever wanted to leave, I’d--- I’d let you go. I want you to be happy. I’m sorry you haven’t been happy for the last two years.”

The last sentence causes me physical pain, so much so that I can’t help but flinch. This is what I’ve wanted all along – or rather what I _used_ to want before I realised that I’m not the only one who’s had to struggle in the past months. He’s saying sorry. Does he even have to? I thought this would be easier, now that he’s here again, but at the moment I feel like I don’t know anything anymore. I just want to lie down with him and kiss his face and hold his hand and sleep until I can think clearly again. I want us to have time to find the words we need to communicate. We lost them during all the hard times that lie behind us.

“Sherlock--- Thank you for apologising. I--- I’m not even sure you have to. But please believe me – I’d never leave you. I’d never want anything,  _anyone_  but you. I’m happy  _now_. You’re here with me. I know why you had to go away, I really do, but I’ll never let you go again. And I--- I’m sorry I was so focused on my own pain that I forgot about yours. I know I can’t take this back, but please… let me make it right.” I lean forward until I can smell his skin, his hair, my palms flat on the mattress, so close to his body that I can feel the heat radiating off him. “Please let me touch you. Please. I don’t know how else to--- I don’t know how---”

I break off.

“John,” he whispers.

He props himself up on one elbow and then raises his free arm to hook his index finger into my collar. Just like the very first time. Slowly, he then pulls at me until our mouths are close enough to touch, and I shut my eyes. The kiss is soft, tentative, not more than a gentle brushing of lips against lips, but it means so, so much.

“I’ll always love you,” I mumble when we part, my lids fluttering open again to find him gazing at me with so much serious, intense affection in his eyes that it takes my breath away. “Sherlock… I promise I’ll love you for the rest of my life.”

He nods wordlessly. There are teardrops clinging to the roots of his lashes, and seeing them makes me want to cry as well, but I fight it back and kiss the bridge of his nose instead.

“I’ve been so selfish, Sherlock, lost in my own despair. It’s time I took care of you,” I tell him. “Whatever you need, I’ll give it to you. I want--- I  _need_  to atone for all the chances I’ve missed to ask you what’s on your mind. I only thought about myself and never considered what you had to go through. You--- Your nightmare, Sherlock… It’s the thing that finally opened my eyes. I want to help. I want to make it better. Please… allow me to.”

His lips quiver, and I ignore the cramping of my back muscles and dig my elbows into the mattress to hold my weight. I cup his face in my hands to caress his cheeks, his temples, the soft skin behind his ears.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, or if you can’t. But whenever you’re ready, I’ll be there. Anytime, Sherlock. And we can talk about everything else, too, when the moment is right. You can be angry at me. I--- I deserve it. I just want us to get through this together.”

He nods again. Then he takes a deep breath, as if bracing himself.

“I lied, John,” he whispers shakily. “I’m not okay.”

I kiss his forehead. His tears fall on my fingers. They’re so hot, and there are so many of them.

“I know, my love,” I whisper back. It takes courage to call him that, and I hope I still deserve the privilege of doing so.

His shoulders begin to shake as he is wrecked by silent sobs, and I get up from my chair and then lie down on my side next to him. He immediately nestles up to my front and pushes his face into the crook of my neck, hiding himself from the world that hurt him so much. I wish I could hold him tight, but that will have to wait, so I just caress his arm and the back of his head and let him weep.

“It’s going to be alright,” I murmur into his ear and kiss it softly. “It’s okay. Just let go. I’m here. You’re safe now. You’re home, Sherlock. You’ll never have to be alone again.”

We don’t talk. I guess he needs to do this first. He cries himself to sleep, and when I check on him about fifteen minutes later, he’s so out of it that I can even put fresh bandages on his back without waking him again. He must have been exhausted.

After tending to his wounds and spreading a light blanket over his naked back to keep him warm, I change into my pyjamas. Then I get my bedding from my room and put it on the floor right next to his bed. I’ll watch over him tonight, and tomorrow. If he lets me, I’ll watch over him  _every_  night from now on.

I’d give my life to protect him from harm.

I’m glad it’s not too late to prove it to him.


	3. Chapter 3

When I wake up the next morning, he's still asleep, and I sit up in my makeshift bed and look at him for a while. He's lying on his stomach, which is good. His face looks peaceful now, but his cheeks still carry faint traces of last night's tears, and seeing them causes my insides to bubble with guilt once more. How could I not notice this sooner? He’s being haunted by what happened to him when he was away, and I never  _ever_  asked him if he was alright. Not once. I asked about his physical wellbeing, yes, but I never considered the possibility that his soul might be suffering, too. I’d be a sorry excuse for a friend, and the fact that we’re supposed to be so much  _more_  than friends just makes it worse.

I swear to myself that now that he’s back, I won't make the same mistakes again. All I want now is to show him that he’s not wrong in giving me a chance.

"Hrmpf," he suddenly grumbles and stirs, pulling me out of my ponderings. His tousled head comes up and he squints at the room in confusion, and then his heavy-lidded eyes find me.

He smiles sleepily.

It's so beautiful that my heart takes a leap.

"What are you doing down there?" he mumbles into his pillow and huffs tiredly.

I smile back at him.

"Watching you. Finding out what you're like when you open your eyes in the morning."

From the way he looks at me, I can tell that he remembers. 

"You could do that from up here," he says, his voice rough.

I shrug.

"I didn't want to hurt you. I thought you could use some space."

His arm sneaks out from under his blanket and he lets it dangle down the side of the bed. His fingers make a grabbing motion, and I realise I'm supposed to take his hand.

I do so, and he holds on to me with a tight grip.

"I didn't know where I was when I woke up," he mutters. "I slept in so many beds in the last two years, and on so many floors… But then I saw you, and it was alright."

"Sherlock," I say and squeeze his fingers. "I never want to wake up without you again."

He purses his lips and his eyes turn a darker shade of blue.

“I’m--- I’m jealous, I think,” he says lowly. “I was very jealous last night. It confused me. I’ve been jealous of your girlfriends before, but that was different. You didn’t… belong to me back then.”

A shiver runs down my back upon hearing this. I look into his face and see fear there, and also a barely noticeable hint of defiance. I’d miss it if I didn’t know him so well. He chose these words carefully, and he wants to see my reaction to them. I’m slightly taken aback by how my heart starts to stutter in response, how my body is drawn to him,  _aching_  for him, how my whole being yearns to melt into his to be with him, all around him,  _inside_  him, never to part again. I’ve never felt like this before. 

“I belong to you,” I tell him, trying to make my eyes show what I’m feeling right now. “I always will.”

His hand slides down to wrap itself around my wrist in a possessive gesture.

“Come up here,” he whispers.

I get on my knees, his hand never loosening its hold on me, and then climb into bed with him.

He rolls on his side and pulls me close, and I bury my fingers in his hair and press my forehead against his.

“I belong to you,” I repeat.

“Kiss me,” is all he replies.

I do. This time our kiss is deeper, more urgent than the one we shared last night, and I moan into his mouth when our lips and tongues slide against each other, rubbing, tasting, exploring long-lost territory with gentle, but determined curiosity.

“I missed your taste,” he sighs and sucks my bottom lip into his mouth. “Mmhhh… I missed breathing your air…”

“Sherlock…”

I feel myself grow hard against him, and he seems to notice, because he groans lowly and adjusts his hips so that they press against mine. His erection is straining against his trousers, and I can feel its heat even through three layers of fabric. His naked chest is heaving against my pyjama-clad one, and I move one of my hands to his front and brush my thumb across his nipple, feeling it stiffen at the touch.

“John,” he says. “ _Oh_.”

His hand slips between us and he fumbles with the zippers, buttons and flies of the garments separating us, and then our cocks finally touch, flesh on flesh, so warm, so silky-smooth, and I hiss and grab his arse to pull him against me.

“ _Sherlock_ \--- Oh God…”

We grind against each other and meet in another long, wet kiss that speaks of all the things we’d do to each other if he wasn’t still hurt and if we had the patience.

There’s no patience whatsoever involved in what we’re doing now. We’re mindlessly rutting against each other, like animals, going harder and faster the longer it lasts, but it’s alright. We both need it like this right now.

He sucks at my tongue and groans around it, and I squeeze his buttocks in my hands and press down between them with two fingers, teasing him through his clothes.

“ _Ngh_ ,” he grunts and lets out a shaky breath against my lips. “ _So_  close…”

“Let go,” I pant and slide my fingers against his crack, and suddenly he reaches behind himself and grabs my hand to push it down the back of his trousers and under the waistband of his boxers.

“Touch me,” he gasps.

I growl and kiss him again, open-mouthed and with a lot of tongue, just like I always imagined when we did it on the phone. He’s so warm down there, his opening soft and slightly damp against my fingers, and I rub small circles around it and then slip the tip of my middle finger inside. I’ve never done this before and I'm therefore not sure if I'll do it right, but I tell myself it’s okay. Learning by doing, John. The sounds he makes are incredible, and I push into his body with a few small, shallow thrusts – without lubrication, there’s not much more I can do.

“ _Mh!_ ” he moans and pulls at my arm again, and at first I’m scared I’ve hurt him, but he just breaks our kiss and moves my hand to his mouth to sloppily suck at my finger before guiding it back to where it was before.

The rough urgency of his movements is such a turn-on. I nudge his entrance again, the touch slick and slippery this time, and he bucks against me and bites my ear. His breath is searing hot on my skin.

“Yes,” he pants. “Yes, John,  _please_ \---”

I enter him again, and if his reactions from before were sexy, then the ones he gives me now are pure and blazing _fire_. I listen to his moans and thrust my cock against his while I go deeper, crooking my finger in the hope of finding his prostate, but from this angle it seems to be difficult.

He hums and kisses me again.

“It’s okay… Just--- in and out,” he then breathes and nips at my bottom lip.

I feel myself blush, but do as he says immediately, and he smiles into our kiss and shivers.

“ _Yes_ … It feels--- so good…”

I’m slightly embarrassed by my inexperience, but he distracts me by dipping his tongue into my mouth to tease mine and rolling his hips in tight, fast circles, the friction on my cock almost too much, but still so, so good. I try to meet his thrusts and move my finger in the same rhythm, and I seem to be doing something right now, because he bites my tongue and then whimpers. His whole body is quivering.

“Baby,” I whisper against his mouth. “You’re--- _mh!_ \--- so fucking---  _beautiful_ … Come on now…  _Come_ \--- all over me…”

He goes rigid in my arms.

“ _John!_ ”

He shudders violently and moans, the sound of his deep, throaty voice vibrating inside my head, and then his lower body jerks forwards and he comes, spilling himself into the space between us and drenching me in warm, wet heat. At the same time, I feel him convulse around my finger, and the two sensations combined are so wonderful that they send me over the edge right after him.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

I add my own share to the mess he’s made between us, my orgasm so sudden that I feel dizzy for a moment.

He groans and laughs simultaneously, still shaking with the aftershocks of his climax, sounding happy and carefree for once, and I hold my finger inside him until he stops moving, revelling in the waves of release thrumming through my own body.

Everything is wet and sticky and wild and  _basic_ , and I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed a quickie this much in all my life.

When he eventually calms down, I pull my hand away and roll onto my back, and he follows immediately and puts his cheek on my shoulder to catch his breath.

“Mmhhh,  _God..._ ” I pant and glance down to talk to the top of his head. “You’re gorgeous when you come...”

He raises his head and kisses my collarbone before melting against me again, and I hold on to his upper arm and run my other hand through his hair, caressing his scalp. He hums tiredly.

We stay like that for a while, our breathing evening out, our hearts beating together.

“I needed that,” he eventually says, and I can hear that he’s hoarse from panting. “I needed that so much.”

I squeeze his shoulder.

“Whatever you need… you just have to ask, Sherlock. I’ll give you anything you want.”

He sighs and rubs his raspy cheek against my skin.

“I know. But John… You’re also allowed to take.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t say anything more. I stare at the opposite wall and wonder if I should ask him what he means, but then he nuzzles my neck and kisses me there, and I press my mouth against his forehead and close my eyes.

I’ll ask him later.

\---

We stay in bed until the feeling of cooling come making our clothes stick to our bodies becomes too uncomfortable, and then we get up and go to the bathroom together. I help him to clean himself up and check whether his bandages are still attached, and then he puts on a fresh pair of pyjamas and his favourite dressing gown. He’ll be spending most of the day lying on the couch, flat on his stomach – as much as I love seeing him in his perfectly tailored suits, there’s no need for Dolce&Gabbana today.

Afterwards he watches me clean myself up, and the way his eyes follow my every move makes me nervous. He senses that (of course he does) and smiles.

“How fast do you think those stitches will heal?” he asks and puts on a mock-innocent face.

I shrug and try to ignore the new surge of arousal spreading through my nerves as the implications of his question fill my brain with images of the two of us finally going at it without the hindrance of his injured body. I could get hard again right now. He’s like an aphrodisiac – just  _looking_  at him is enough to speed up my pulse.

“A week, maybe two?” I suggest, happy that my voice doesn’t wobble too much.

He pouts. I decide that I’ve never seen anything as weird as Sherlock  _pouting_.

“That’s rather  _long_. It’ll be hard to wait, I suppose,” he then says. “Very, very  _hard_.”

_Long. Hard. Yes, indeed._

I close my eyes for a moment and fight to get my heart rate back under control. When I look at him again, he’s grinning.

“I’ll listen to my doctor, of course. I’ll accept any treatment you see fit.” His voice drops to an even deeper drawl. “ _Any_  treatment whatsoever.”

You’re a minx, Sherlock Holmes. But I’ll be reasonable. I’m the doctor, yes. I know best.

“I’ll go and get dressed,” I say and smirk at him. “We wouldn’t want to prolong the healing process by doing something rash now.”

“Of course,” he answers silkily, sounding  _very_  much like his brother, and I tell him so.

He glowers at me. It’s rather cute, but I refrain from telling him that as well.

“Way to kill the mood,” he huffs. “Thank you, John.”

He shuffles away, and a moment later I hear him rummage around in the kitchen, collecting utensils to make tea. I look at my own image in the mirror and sigh. We’re almost back to normal, it seems. But as much as I want that to be true, I know that it isn't. I know there are hard times yet to come, and not because of the scars he’ll always carry on his body.

I wonder if he’ll open up about the other wounds, too.

\---

Mrs Hudson often comes over on Saturdays to have a cup of tea with me, and I ask Sherlock over breakfast whether he’s ready to reveal himself to her.

“You can just stay in your bedroom, or in mine, if you need more time. Or I can find an excuse to visit her at her place.”

He takes a bite of his scrambled eggs on toast (I went full English today – he’s really much too skinny for my liking) and shrugs.

“I suppose I should talk to her as soon as possible. She’ll be furious because I lied to her.”

I shake my head.

“Maybe. But she’ll be incredibly happy to see you again. You--- It hit her really hard, Sherlock.”

“She’ll also be furious that  _you_  lied to her,” he adds and grins at me, picking up a sausage with his fork.

I roll my eyes at him.

“Yeah, thanks. I’ve already thought about that. But it can’t be helped, can it?”

Watching him wrap his lips around one half of the sausage and then bite it off doesn’t help me to stay focused, and I chide myself for getting distracted (and horny) from seeing him engage in such a perfectly ordinary activity. I feel like all the pent-up sexual energy that I have accumulated during the last two years is now crashing down on me with vengeance, putting me in a state of perpetual arousal. Of course, he wouldn’t be himself if he didn’t know.

He smiles and licks his lips (glistening with frying fat, and  _why_  do I find that so sexy?) and then makes a show of nonchalantly sucking the remaining half of the sausage into his mouth and chewing it slowly, his eyes fixed on mine.

“I love eating your… cooking,” he says lowly. “It’s  _delicious_.”

“Is it?”

I’ve made up my mind. I get up and walk around the table until I’m standing right beside him. He looks up at me and puts down his cutlery.

“I can’t help but notice you’re really good with words,” I rumble, giving my voice an edge of suggestive provocation. “What else can you do with that mouth of yours…?”

And there goes “reasonable”!

He turns towards my crotch and stares at the place where my cock is already making attempts at joining the conversation.

“You’d be surprised,” he whispers and moves his head forwards until his lips almost,  _almost_  touch the fly of my jeans. “So…  _very_ … surprised.”

Even through the thick denim, I can feel his hot breath brushing me, and my hand strays towards his head to grip his hair.

“ _What?!_ ”

Both our heads snap up and around so fast that I’m surprised not to hear them make a swooshing sound in unison.

Mrs Hudson is standing in the kitchen door, staring at Sherlock with an expression of utter disbelief on her face. Her eyes are huge, and her hands are shaking. We somehow missed the sound of the flat’s door being opened, it appears.

“Erm,” Sherlock says. Then he tries to smile, but it looks pathetic. “Hello, Mrs H.”

\---

I leave the kitchen and listen to her scream at Sherlock for approximately five minutes, during which he doesn’t even try to interrupt her. He has apparently decided to just take it and hope for the best.

When she’s said everything she needed to get off her chest, she starts to sob. It sounds more angry than sad, but my heart goes out to her nonetheless. I can hear him mumble something in a soft voice, and then her sobs sound muffled all of a sudden. I peer around the doorframe and see them standing there, Sherlock with his arms around the much smaller woman, holding her in a gentle embrace. She looks up when she hears me and reaches out with one hand to point at me.

“And  _you!_ ” she cries. “You  _knew_  the whole time!”

I cringe. Even with her face all puffy and her mascara running down her cheeks she manages to look extraordinarily intimidating.

“Yes, I did. I’m so sorry, Mrs Hudson.”

She sniffs in agitation.

“John Watson, you should be ashamed. I trusted you!”

I feel like a little boy being told off by his mother, and I  _do_  feel guilty – have been doing so ever since he went away, in fact. But I did the right thing, and I know she’ll understand as soon as she calms down a bit.

“I know. But he did it to keep us alive, Mrs Hudson. And I kept quiet to keep  _him_  alive.”

She presses her lips together and furrows her brow, but doesn’t say anything else. I close the distance between me and them and carefully put my hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I felt terrible for lying to you. I wish I could have spared you the pain.”

She still doesn’t answer, but just leans her temple against Sherlock’s chest and closes her eyes. He gazes at me over the top of her head.

“Will you have some breakfast with us, Mrs Hudson?” he then asks softly. “Or at least a cup of tea?”

She chuckles weakly and looks up again.

“Didn’t look like you were having  _breakfast_  when I interrupted you,” she quips. Her voice sounds much firmer now.

I grimace in embarrassment, but Sherlock just huffs out a short, amused laugh.

“Not the conventional kind, no.”

Mrs Hudson lets go of him and clears her throat.

“I’ll go and freshen up. And yes, I’d love a cup of tea then.” She turns to leave the kitchen. “Oh, and boys - the conventional kind, please.”

\---

“So what happened to this Moriarty bloke then? How did he get away?”

Mrs Hudson doesn’t hold a grudge, bless her. She’s sitting with us now as we finish our breakfast, and I’m happy that she’s there – she’s like a catalyst for the conversation I’ve been dying to have with Sherlock, and she’s just asking away, with no apparent regard for the possibility that he might want to keep some of his experiences to himself.

“He didn’t get away. He shot himself in the head right before my eyes. He was so eager to rob me of any opportunity to stop his plan from being carried out that even his life was not too high a price to pay.”

“Blimey,” she mutters.

I’m confused.

“But--- they didn’t find a body up there on the roof. How can he be dead?”

Sherlock shrugs and shakes his head.

“I know they didn’t find him. Mycroft told me. I have no idea, John. Maybe there was another person up there with us and I simply didn’t notice. Or they came and got him out of there while everyone was busy with me.”

“So you just played dead? How?” Mrs Hudson asks.

“Well, my people helped to block every road to St. Bart’s for as long as it took to remove all evidence that I’d taken measures to survive the jump, and then, when the others arrived, I was already lying on the pavement with fake blood on my face,” he answers. “John identified me and confirmed my death, and Molly helped Mycroft to get me out of the morgue by replacing my body with that of another man. The rest is history.”

She frowns.

“Oh John – I’m sure that wasn’t easy for you. Seeing your Sherlock like that.”

She pats my hand, and despite the pang the memory of that moment gives me, I have to smile a bit. “My” Sherlock.

“No, it wasn’t,” I agree. “It was--- I knew it was just for show, but I also knew we wouldn’t see each other for months to come, so… it was difficult.”

Sherlock sighs.

“I saw your face above me, and you played your grief so convincingly that it tore my heart apart.”

Mrs Hudson and I both stare at him at that, and he fidgets with his napkin and looks back at us with an air of confusion.

“What?” he asks. “What is it?”

Mrs Hudson smiles, and now it’s Sherlock’s hand’s turn to be patted.

“You’ve changed, you know. You’re--- so much more human.”

He bites his lip.

“I did inhuman things while I was away,” he mutters. “Maybe that’s why.”

Mrs Hudson glances at me, a questioning look in her eyes, but I have no idea how to react. Should I ask him or simply wait until he talks more? Is this his way of telling me that he  _wants_  to be asked about it all?

Mrs Hudson saves me from having to make a decision by squeezing his forearm and saying: “Whatever it was that you did – you did it because there was no other way. You’re the best, the  _kindest_  man I’ve ever known, and you wouldn’t hurt a person if it wasn’t necessary.”

Sherlock exhales through his nose, and there are tears in his eyes now. Mrs Hudson gets up and wraps her arms around him, unaware of his wounds, and he flinches. She backs off immediately.

“They hurt  _you_ , dear,” she whispers. “Oh God. My poor lad.” She puts her hands around his face and kisses his forehead. “It’s going to be alright, Sherlock. We’re there for you, okay? You’ll be alright.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but puts his hands over hers where they are covering his ears. His eyes are a stunning shade of turquoise in the stark light of the kitchen lamp.

“I’ll leave you two alone now,” Mrs Hudson tells him. “I’m sure you’ve got so many things you want to talk about. But call me whenever you need something, dear. Anything. Okay?”

He nods. She kisses him again and then pulls away.

“Okay. Goodbye, boys.”

On her way out, she puts her hand on the back of my neck for a moment.

“Take care of him,” she says.

Then she leaves, and we’re alone again.

I get up and pull up a chair so that I can sit down right next to him.

“Do you want to talk?” I ask him.

He shrugs and snuffles, and a single tear spills out of his right eye and runs down his cheek.

“You--- You won’t like what I have to tell you.”

I put my hand over his and caress his knuckles with the pad of my thumb.

“All I want is to carry a piece of your burden.”

He presses his lips together tightly, his eyes desperate.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for, John…”

He seems to be forgetting what I was before we met. Trying to stay calm for his sake, I look at him and smile sadly.

“Listen, Sherlock, I’ve killed people, okay? I’ve killed people who were evil, but I've also killed people who were just doing their stupid job. Please. I know what it feels like. And I know you can’t get through it on your own. I tried. But I needed you to come around and save me. Let me be the one who saves you now.”

His chin quivers as if he wanted to cry, but then he just buries his face in his hands and heaves a dry sob.

“I never--- never wanted to become a killer, John. I--- I helped people to get other people killed, by proving their guilt, by--- by helping the authorities to convict them, but up to the time I left you, I’d never actively, _intentionally_ killed anybody. And I--- I didn’t expect to be quite so affected by it. I knew there was no other way – Moriarty’s network had to be stopped, to be weakened, and we know that a normal trial would have changed nothing at all… They would have gone free, and it would have started all over again…”

He’s talking fast, and I rub his shoulder and listen. Later, there might be time to say something in return, to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, but I know that that’s only of minor significance right now – he needs to get it out of his head, his heart; it’s like a poison that’s paralysing his soul, and it has to go, to flow out of him, so that he can heal.

“Shooting was easy, much easier than I’d thought before I had to do it for the first time. The bomb was more difficult, because I was scared that I’d also hit innocent bystanders… and once--- once, I had to--- with a _knife_ , John…”

A shudder runs through his body, and my composure wavers. My poor, poor Sherlock. This is different from being a soldier and killing on the battlefield. I can barely imagine what it must be like for him.

“Serbia wasn’t the only time I got caught, but until then I’d always been able to escape on my own… and not all of them tortured me, so--- I managed. But it was so exhausting, John, to always be on the lookout… always run, always hide… I solved some more or less unrelated cases along the way, which provided me with distractions, but in the end I always knew that I had to go back to the plan, and that it was me – and _you_ , and Mrs Hudson, and everyone I love – or them.”

He looks up at me and bites his lip again.

“If they ever find out what I did, I’ll go to prison for the rest of my life. Not even Mycroft could save me then… and I’m not sure he should.”

I can’t let him think like that about himself, not for one moment. I shake my head and fix my gaze on him, hoping that my words will reach his core.

“The world is a better place without Moriarty and without anyone associated with him. You know it is. You didn’t only do it for yourself, or me, or for Mrs Hudson – you did it for everyone, Sherlock. You protected everyone by hunting them down.”

“Some of them had families, John,” he rasps. “Wives, husbands, children. What would I tell them if I met them?”

He looks so devastated, and I realise that suffering physical pain was not the deciding factor in his trauma, and maybe even didn’t play a role in it at all. I was completely wrong.

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” I admit. “I really don’t. I’m so sorry.” I cup the side of his face in my palm and caress his cheek. “But you’re not a bad person. You’re fighting for the right thing. Please believe me.”

He closes his eyes and leans his head against my hand.

“I’m so tired,” he whispers. “I’m so tired of it all.”

“Sherlock… it will get better. I know it will. It’s all still so fresh now, and you’re weak… but I know you’ll get through it. _We_ will. I promise I’ll be there for you.”

He doesn’t answer. I look at his gaunt face, and now that I’m taking my time to do so, I can see the marks his experiences left on his once so youthful features. There are lines that weren’t there two years ago, and a few small, faded scars, and a bitter expression of grief around his mouth that seems to be there to stay.

“Tell me what you need, Sherlock. I’ll do anything to make you better.”

He opens his lids and looks at me with so much pain in his eyes that I feel it hit me like something solid, something alive and vicious that’s threatening to sweep him away in its wake and leave me alone to grasp at thin, empty air.

“Just sit with me,” he says. “Just sit right here with me.”

And so I do.

\---

We spend almost the whole weekend like that – he keeps swinging back and forth between the will, the _need_ to talk about his guilt and exhaustion in only slight variations of the conversation that started it all and long, sad silences that we spend with him sitting or lying beside me, holding my hand. Sometimes he cries. Sometimes I read to him from his favourite book on bees. Sometimes we watch reruns of Doctor Who on the telly.

I tell him that I’m sorry for not acknowledging his problems sooner, for assuming that he was alright, for leaving him alone in his pain and only caring about myself. He says he doesn’t blame me, but I want him to. I was wrong, so terribly wrong, in thinking that he’d always be the strong, confident mind machine, the fighter, the one who always solves the case and finds the culprit and then just carries on.

I say sorry for everything concerning Mary, too, again, but he doesn’t want to hear that, either. He’s still jealous, yes. But it was only drinks. He forgives me. Nothing happened. Let it go, John. I feel like I should be happy – I got out of it alright, didn’t I? He doesn’t hate me, didn’t leave me, still wants me around. I shouldn’t question why. I shouldn’t want him to be more upset. Why do I, then?

\---

I stay home from work for three more days, because I don’t want him to be alone. I’ve got six weeks left before I can leave the clinic, and at the moment I can’t even imagine leaving him on his own for one hour, let alone a whole day. He laughs at me for it, and I tell him I can very well make it another _week_ , but he’s very insistent, and in the end we make a compromise. Three more days of pampering (“You’ve got to _eat_ , Sherlock.”), and then I’ll go back to work (“I’m not a _baby_ , John. I’ll manage. And Mrs Hudson is there, too.”).

As the days pass by, he slowly gets better, I think, and stronger. I sleep with him in his bed now, and he loves to take my hand and nuzzle it as he falls asleep, still forced to lie on his front to go easy on his healing wounds.

We snog a few times, but it never goes any further, and I’m okay with that. I’ll let him set the pace for this – he’s the one who’s injured, both with regards to his body and his mind, and I don’t want to overwhelm him. He’ll let me know when he’s ready for more.

On Wednesday, I ask him if he’s had another nightmare since he’s back home, and he says no. He looks me squarely in the eyes as he says it, but somehow – and I can’t explain why – I’m not sure if I believe him.

\---

Thursday. My first day back after being on “sick leave”.

It’s three in the afternoon and I’m dying of boredom. The clinic is quiet today – the most interesting case I’ve had so far was a toddler with a peanut stuck in his left nostril. I stare at the paperwork piling on my desk and debate getting some of it done. There’s time now, but it’s so, so _dull_. I can’t wait for my last weeks at this place to be over.

The decision is taken away from me by a deft knock at the door. It’s Mary’s day shift today, and a moment later I hear her open the door for my next patient. I glance up from my papers and see a tall, apparently very sniffly man in a black jumper with the hood pulled up shuffle in behind her. He’s wearing sunglasses. Maybe just hungover, then.

“Hello,” I say and make to get up to greet him. “I’m Dr Watson. How can I---”

I trail off and sink back down on my chair. I know the way this man moves, and I know the way he holds his head.

“Doctor?” Mary frowns at me and holds out a chart, waiting for me to take it. “This is Mr Smith. He’s complaining about---”

“Smith?” I interrupt her. “ _John_ Smith?”

She nods, the look of confusion on her face becoming more prominent by the second.

“Yes.”

I laugh mirthlessly.

“He stole that from Doctor Who.”

“ _What?_ ”

She stares at me, obviously wondering whether I’ve finally cracked.

I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve been thinking of him, _missing_ him ever since I left the flat this morning. Now all I want is a hole to open up right beneath me and swallow me up, desk, paperwork and all. What the fuck is he thinking, coming here?

Sherlock takes off his sunglasses and pulls down the hood of his jumper, revealing a mop of unruly curls.

“Hello, John,” he says.

Mary gasps.


	4. Chapter 4

"Oh my God,” she says slowly. “It's--- It's him, isn't it? Isn't it?"

I flex my jaw and nod, glowering at him.

"Yes. It's him," I reply and finally get up to walk around my desk and position myself between them.

We’re now making up the most awkward,  _impossible_  triangle one can imagine. I’m not sure whether I want to laugh, cry, or kick something, preferably my own arse for not suspecting that this whole thing would definitely have consequences. I knew there was something he wasn’t telling me. I  _knew_  it.

"Oh my  _God_ …"

Mary looks from Sherlock to me and back again, her eyes glinting with surprise and excitement. Sherlock is watching her with mild interest, and I wonder what he's thinking right now.

"Did you know?" she then wants to know. 

I bite my lip, but before I can reply, Sherlock takes a step towards me and puts his hand on my arm.

"No, he didn't," he says calmly. "He only found out last week."

Mary smirks, and I feel anger rise up inside of me. Why the hell is he covering for me? I went behind his back and had a date with this woman, and he decides to protect me from losing my face in front of her when she asks me whether I tried to go behind  _her_  back as well? For the love of God – I can't let that happen.

I pull out of his grasp and square my shoulders.

" _Bollocks_. Yes, I did. I knew the whole time," I say. “And I told him about you when he got back about a week ago.”

Sherlock stares at me, his gaze unreadable. Mary raises her eyebrows and puffs out her cheeks. Then she grins at me.

"Oh, you're in trouble," she says, gloating.

I really can't blame her.

"And  _you_ ," she adds and walks over to Sherlock. "You're a  _terrible_  liar. But you're cute. I can see now why he didn’t shut up about you all night."

She gets on her toes and kisses him on the cheek (What the  _fuck?!_ ), and then turns to leave the room.

"Not sure if you swing both ways, but… give me a ring if he fucks it up," she tells Sherlock and points at me with her thumb.

Then she winks at me and leaves.

I close my eyes for a moment to gather my composure. When I open them again, I find Sherlock looking after Mary with a barely noticeable hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"And  _I_  can see why you said yes to her," he says without looking at me.

I gaze at the ceiling and take a deep breath.

“What are you doing here, Sherlock?”

He steps right in front of me then, so close that I have to crane my neck to be able to properly see his face. We’re not touching, but I can feel the heat radiating off his body.

“I needed to see her. I couldn’t bear not knowing, not having a real face to fight off the images my mind provided me with. I tried, but it wouldn’t let me sleep.”

Okay. I can work with that.

"Fine. Are you satisfied now?” I ask. “Now that you've seen her and humiliated me in front of her?"

I’m upset, but I can't help it. I  _feel_  humiliated. He shouldn't have lied to her. I can stand up for myself, and if he protects me from admitting to my own mistakes, he just takes the opportunity to make up for them away from me.

He frowns at me.

“Humiliated  _you?_  Don’t you think that it’s either  _me_  who should feel humiliated, since you went out with another person while I wasn’t looking, or  _her_ , since you dropped her after coming to your senses again?”

He takes a step back again, and now it’s me who’s on the receiving end of a deadly glare. I shake my head.

“You lied to her to protect me! I don’t need you to fight my battles!”

“Oh, you don’t? Because it does feel like it sometimes!”

He’s not shouting yet, but he’s raised his voice, and I hope against hope that there are no other people sitting in the waiting room right now.

“What the fuck does that mean?” I hiss, trying to keep my own volume low.

He laughs bitterly.

“The fact that you don’t know that, John, is exactly the problem.”

My hands ball into fists out of their own accord – I’m vibrating with fury and a helpless sense of confusion. What is happening here? Why are we fighting? Why is he saying all these horrible things?

“If you want to speak in riddles – I don’t have the time for that, Sherlock,” I snap.

Very diplomatic, John. Surely that was helpful.

He narrows his eyes.

“I’m tired of being the one who tells you what to do. I’m tired of being the one who’s in control. I’ve been in control for the last two bloody  _years_ , John. My life – and, might I add,  _yours_  – depended on it. I’m tired now. You say you’re sorry for everything – why don’t you just finally do something, then? I don’t need apologies. I need you, the strong you, the one that holds me tight, the one that--- that tells me to go and buy a fucking bottle of  _milk_  once in a while!”

I gape at him. This outburst is something I didn’t expect. Not from Sherlock. He’s always so collected, so aloof. But he isn’t finished.

“I’m really,  _really_  bad with people, and with  _feelings_ , and I’ve  _never_  had a relationship before – how come I’m better at this than you?” He reaches up with both hands to ruffle his own hair. He looks so frustrated. “This version of you – it’s not the John Watson I fell in love with.”

Everything inside of me turns cold at that. I purse my lips, trying my hardest not to let it show.

“I have to work, Sherlock.”

He stares at me and sighs. Then his shoulders slump and he nods.

“Okay.”

He turns around and puts on his sunglasses. Then he pulls the hood of his jumper up and over his head. He doesn’t look like himself now. And he doesn’t feel like the Sherlock I know – I  _thought_  I knew – either.

I want to say something, anything, just to make this terrible feeling inside of me stop, but I can’t think of a single thing to tell him, so I just stand there and watch him walk away.

He’s out of the door a few moments later, and I’m alone. I exhale loudly and cover my face with my hands. Fuck.

_Fuck._

\---

When I get home in the evening, he’s sulking on the couch.

Well.

Maybe he’s just resting.

I take off my shoes and jacket and make my way over to him, but he doesn’t turn his head when I take the clients’ chair and sit down next to him. He’s wearing his favourite pair of striped pyjamas and a burgundy robe, and if this had been a normal day, I would probably bend down and kiss his head, or maybe, if I felt playful, one of his bare feet, and then I would check his back or make tea or dinner and everything would be fine.

Now I look at his tense shoulders and the tips of his ears visible amidst a mass of dark curls and ask: “Do you want me to move out?”

He groans exasperatedly and finally looks up.

“No! For God’s sake!”

We’ll apparently just carry on where we left off.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath and open my hands in an appeasing gesture. “What do you want me to do, then?”

He props himself up on his elbows. The expression on his face is a strange mixture of annoyance and despair.

“I want you to know what I want you to do without having to tell you. I want to--- I want to be able to let go when we’re together. I don’t want your guilt, and your apologies, and you don’t need to treat me like I’m--- I don’t know, an invalid or something. I’ll need time to rest, to process what happened to me, yes – but I’m not going to break.”

I nod, but then shrug. What am I supposed to say now?  _Sorry?_  That would be exactly what he’s just asked me not to say.

“Why did you come to the clinic today, Sherlock?” I ask him.

He sighs.

“I’ve already told you. I needed to see her. My imagination had been, for lack of a better phrase, running wild. It’s okay now. If you need to hear it again - I forgive you. Nothing happened. You had a weak moment, and that’s okay.”

“Okay,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me that it was still upsetting you so? You said it was alright. You… lied to me.”  

The despair in his eyes becomes more prominent. I want the annoyance back.

“If I’d told you, you’d have fussed over me again, and said sorry, and felt bad, and I didn’t want that. I can’t--- I can’t deal with it, John. I can’t support you if I can barely keep myself from breaking down. I--- I also thought I could get over it. But then I realised I would not be able to do that without seeing her. Going to the clinic was the logical thing to do – the earlier, the better.”

“Did you plan on confronting me in front of her?”

“I don’t know. Yes. Maybe.”

“Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

He hesitates.

“I have nightmares, John. Every night, every time I fall asleep. But usually I just wake up, find you next to me, and then go back to sleep. It’s going to be like that for a while. I--- I keep thinking about---”

I feel terrible, knowing that he’s trying to protect himself from my pity and self-loathing by dealing with his demons on his own, but I can see why he’s been doing it. I’ve been handling the whole thing like a bloody idiot.

“About what, Sherlock?” I ask softly.

He draws a long, shuddering breath, looking so lost that it pains me to watch him.

I wait.

After several minutes of silence he finally speaks again.

“At Kitty’s flat… when we met Moriarty… I  _admired_  him, John. For a very, very fleeting moment I couldn’t help but marvel at his--- his brilliance. And he knew. He looked at me, and he  _knew_. And now--- now I’m dealing with the aftermath of what he did to me, what he  _made_  me do, and… it drives me insane to know that this is his victory over me. He didn’t manage to kill you, or one of the others, which is all I’ve ever wanted. But he’s won over me, because this is affecting me in a way I couldn’t have predicted. I keep falling, and it tires me so to get up again. I thought I was… stronger.”

He can’t be serious. He’s so selfless, so  _brave_ , even if he doesn’t want to hear it. How can he not see that?

“Sherlock,” I say carefully and put my palm on his shoulder, not caressing him, just pressing down a little to show him I’m there. “You’re not weak. You went through hell for us. For  _me_. I can’t think of anything more noble, more…  _human_. Moriarty was sick, a monster. He was brilliant at what he did – you’re right about that. But he didn’t win over you. You’re still here, and yes, you won’t break. You’ll emerge on the other side, stronger than before. I’ll see to it. I’ll be beside you. If you fall, I’ll help you up. Again and again, as often as you need me to. Always.”

Only when I’m finished do I realise how quiet he’s become. He’s not moving, not even blinking, only staring at me with wide, incredulous eyes.

It’s freaking me out.

“I love you,” I say and try to smile, and that seems to shake him out of his stupor.

He gets up from the couch, causing my hand to slip off his arm.

“I’m so in love with you, John. Of course I am. I’m sorry about what I said at the clinic. I didn’t think,” he mumbles, looking at his feet. “Trying to build a relationship on one hour of great sex and two years of sporadic phone calls and expecting it to go smoothly was probably a little utopian. But I want it to work. You’re my all, John. I couldn’t be without you.”

I rise as well. There are a hundred ways to respond to this, and all of them are currently racing through my mind. I have to decide on the right one. He wants me to be confident. To be strong. To be in control.

“I know,” I say. “But it’s not only that, Sherlock. We’re also building this on a friendship that’s unlike anything I’ve ever known. I think we’ll be okay.”

He exhales a loud, relieved sigh and looks up to smile at me. Then he licks his lips, and his gaze turns hopeful.

“You don’t always have to take the lead, John; that’s not what I want. I want you to be yourself, and comfortable, and I want us to be equal – in our everyday lives, in our work, in bed---”

“I get it,” I interrupt him. “I get it, alright? Listen…” I close the distance between us and take his head in my hands. “This is the last time I say sorry for this – the last time, okay? I’m sorry for being so fucking dense. I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for being weak and self-centred and whiny. And I’m sorry for saying sorry instead of doing something about it.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but I pull him towards me and press a long, hard kiss on his lips to shut him up. He huffs into my mouth, but kisses back, and I run my fingers through his hair and pull his head back with gentle force to make him bare his neck. I kiss down the long line of his throat, feeling his pulse flutter against my tongue.

There’s one more thing need to talk about.

“Mary kissed you,” I mutter and suck at his clavicle, mapping the cluster of freckles there with my tongue.

“Yes,” he breathes.

“Did you like it?”

I bite down on the damp skin I’ve just kissed, and he shudders against me.

“Yes… But only because of your reaction to it.” He’s holding on to my shoulders now, swaying slightly. “She did it on purpose,” he adds lowly.

I scoff and nip my way up his neck again, enjoying the warm, rich scent of his skin.

“I know…” I whisper against him.

Of course she did it on purpose. Maybe she just wanted to rile me up. Or maybe, and I’m suspecting that this is the more likely version, she noticed what I needed to finally get my head out of my arse and decided to help me out. Which would then, funnily enough, rile me up too. I can’t be mad at her. I deserve it.

“God, I wish your back had already healed…”

I growl in frustration and push my crotch against his thigh, and he shivers and draws me closer against his front to wrap his arms around my neck.

"What if we keep my back out of the way?" he asks and moans when I run my teeth along his Adam’s apple. “I could just---  _mhhh_ … I could just kneel on the floor and go down on you…”

“Sherlock,” I grumble and reach down with one hand to cup his crotch, which bears the undeniable evidence that he’s having a really great time right now. “That sounds tempting…”

His breath catches in the back of his throat when I squeeze him gently and rub my middle and index finger against his perineum to tease him through the thin material of his pyjamas.

“Did you get tested after--- after Serbia?” I ask him and brush his jaw with my lips.

The risk of completely killing the mood by reminding one’s lover of traumatic experiences in the middle of foreplay is not to be underestimated, but he also wants me to stop walking on eggshells around him, so I decide to face it.

“Yes,” he answers and puts his forehead against mine for a moment. “I did.”

He doesn’t sound irritated by my question, and I let out the breath I was holding and slide my hand under his collar to get more skin-on-skin contact.

He raises his head and gives me a shy grin.

“Do you want my mouth, John?” he then asks, speaking right into my ear. “You can take it… I’ll let you take whatever you want…”

Goosebumps race down my arms and back, and I pull at his hair again to make him look at me. He’s blushing beautifully, high up on his cheekbones, and his eyes are burning with arousal. I run my fingers across his mouth, tracing that perfect Cupid's bow and his pouting bottom lip, and he holds my gaze and opens his lips to suck on my thumb.

“That’s it,” I tell him, my voice darker than I intended it to sound. “Bedroom.  _Now._ ”

\---

He practically rips the clothes off my body as soon as we get to the bedroom, but when he attempts to use the same speed on himself, I hold his wrists and slow him down.

“We’ll watch out for those bandages,” I tell him and bite the shell of his ear while I slowly push his robe off his shoulders. “The faster you’re fit to play again, the better.”

“ _Play_ …” He hums and wriggles his hips to make his pyjama trousers slide to the floor. “I like the sound of that…”

We meet in yet another long kiss, during which I unbutton his pyjama shirt and slip it off his arms.

“I could kiss you all day,” I mutter and pull his luscious bottom lip into my mouth to suck on it. “You’re so fucking  _delicious_ … God…”

He chuckles into the kiss and then pulls away.

“Come on,” he says and walks over to his bed.

I watch as he pulls the duvet off of it and then lowers himself to the floor to kneel on it, his elbows resting on the mattress.

"Get over here," he breathes and looks at me with a blazing look in his eyes.

I step closer and sit down on the edge of the mattress, and he makes room to let me move right in front of him, pulling at my calves and thighs until I’m in the perfect position for what I’m sure will be an amazing blowjob. I’ve already had a taste of those lips two years ago, and I want more.

“I recall you challenging that  _mouth of mine_  a few mornings ago…” he murmurs throatily. “And I’m hungry for you, John…  _so_  hungry.”

Then he licks his lips, slowly, and the sight alone is so sensual that my cock twitches in response. He grins.

“Yes,” he sighs. “Hungry for  _that_ …”

He leans forward and caresses the underside of my penis with his bottom lip in one long, tantalising, barely-there stroke. It’s teasing, torturous  _perfection_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” I pant. “Oh God. Oh  _Sherlock_.”

“You’re so  _silky_ …” he whispers, speaking right against my skin and driving me insane with it. “And underneath, you’re like  _steel_ …”

He’s doing it on purpose. It’s not by chance that he’s using all those fricatives. Every puff of air slipping out from between his teeth is a tiny provocative touch, a small spark of arousal, a promise for more. My legs are already shaking.

“I’ve been longing for you… longing to taste you…”

His tongue flickers out and brushes the highly sensitive spot right underneath my tip before vanishing into his mouth again. It’s not enough. I need more, now,  _now_.

“Please,” I hiss. “God,  _please_ …”

“Say what you want me to do, love.”

The tip of his tongue bumps against me on the “l”, but is gone again far too quickly. I whimper, and I’m not ashamed of the sound. It’s okay to show him what he’s doing to me. He’s reduced me to a complete mess by talking to my cock for barely a minute, and he deserves the recognition.

“Take me--- into your mouth,” I answer breathlessly, my hands gripping the sheet I’m sitting on. “Please,  _now_ …”

“Mmhhh,” he hums against me, and the vibrations of his voice ripple through me, causing my cock to strain against his lips and begin to leak.

“ _Ah_ ,” I moan and stare, mesmerised, as the thick drops of transparent fluid run along my shaft in shining streaks until they encounter his hot, slick tongue halfway down.

He licks me clean, the texture of his tongue velvety and rough at the same time, and then grazes my tip with his teeth, lightly, carefully, and I never would have thought that teeth on my most vulnerable parts could excite me so much, but they do.

“Please,” I repeat. “Please.  _Sherlock._ ”

I  _want_  to. I want to grab him, push him, my fingers are itching to weave into his hair and finally subdue him – but I can’t. I need clear permission. He’s my treasure. I’d never risk hurting him or making him uncomfortable when we’re together like this.

“Take it,” he sighs. I know he knows. “ _Take_  it now. I want you to.”

I growl and put one of my hands on his head and grab the base of my cock with the other.

“Suck my cock,” I tell him and push my tip against his lips to coax them open for me.

“ _Yes_ ,” he moans and then finally,  _finally_  obeys and sucks me into his mouth to go down deep right away.

“Ho- _oh_  God,” I gasp.

He bobs his head up and down slowly, hollowing his cheeks, and I can feel the velvety texture of his tongue moving against my length with wonderful, perfect pressure. His fingers are on my thighs, kneading my flesh, and something about him doing this hands-free is extremely arousing.

“ _Hahhh_ , baby,  _yes_ …” I sigh and put my other hand on his head as well to card my fingers through his hair.

He’s looking up at me from under heavy lids, and I don’t know what’s more alluring – his lovely lips wrapped around me or his sparkling, staring eyes that are almost entirely pupils now, blown wide and so, so dark.

He hums around me and sucks hard, and my hips buck against his face in reflex, eager for more contact, for a faster rhythm, for more, more,  _more_  of this.

“Sorry!”

I grimace at him, trying to hold still. He closes his eyes and grapples for my hands, and at first I think he wants me to let go of his head, but no – his fingers covering mine, he eases into a slightly faster rhythm of up and down, and my heart skips a beat when I realise that he wants me to dictate the speed and force of his movements.

“Oh fuck,” I mutter. “ _God._ ”

I bury my fingers in his hair and pull lightly to show I understand, and he grunts and lets go of my hands to put his palms on my thighs again.

“Mmhh, Sherlock… Look at you… You’re  _amazing_ , oh God…”

I hold the back of his head and push, then pull him up again until I almost slip out, then push down again, holding him there for a second before starting all over again, up, down, again and again, faster and faster, and he just lets it happen, uttering small, groaning sounds of pleasure that tell me he’s very,  _very_  alright with what I’m doing. It’s incredible. I watch him, almost awestruck, aware of the fact that no other person, no one but  _him_ , could ever make me feel this way. Being the one person in the world who’s allowed to see him like this is exhilarating and frightening all at once.

“Oh God, Sherlock,” I pant. “Oh  _God_. You’re--- so good…”

I’m reduced to a very basic form of speech by now. Although I wish we could do this forever, the rational part of me knows that if I don’t stop now, the whole thing will be over much too soon. I want to come down his throat, want it so much, but I also want to draw it out. We’ve waited too long for this – a quick, over-enthusiastic orgasm will not do that justice.

Gathering all my willpower, I pull him off of me completely, and he opens his eyes and looks at me. I’m blown away by the intensity of his gaze, and the way his lips glisten with saliva makes me want to push myself inside that mouth again so badly. He’s breathing fast.

“What?” he gasps.

I clench my teeth. My cock is pulsing violently; I was so close. I try to calm down and run my fingertips down to the nape of his neck. He shivers.

“Don’t--- wanna come,” I answer, my voice rough. “Too fast…”

He shakes some stray locks of hair out of his eyes and looks at me with a predatory expression on his pale, oh-so-handsome face.

“No, please…” he replies breathlessly. "I need to have you now… Please give it to me…" He bites down on his bottom lip and sucks it into his mouth, relishing my taste. I've never seen anything this sensual before. Then he smiles and whispers: “We've got all night… I'll get you hard again…  _Please_ , John…"

_Good God._

Not giving me a chance to think, let alone answer (as if I could ever deny him  _anything_ ), he lowers his head and takes me in again, and I moan at the feeling of wet heat engulfing me once more. I tighten my grip on his hair and thrust up and into his mouth. My head’s empty, all thoughts of waiting, of restraining myself forgotten. His hands are on my hips now, and his lids have slid shut again. He goes down, down, and this time, he doesn’t stop. I feel myself hit the back of his throat, and then I’m suddenly inside something tight, something that’s massaging me with rhythmic contractions, and oh  _God_ , I think he’s  _swallowing_  around me now.

“Sher--- _God!_ ”

My eyes roll back in my head and I bite my lip to keep myself from screaming. He grumbles, and it sounds pleased and proud, and I laugh at the ceiling, ending in a low sob when he pulls back slightly to catch his breath.

“ _Nnnghhh_ … Don’t---  _stop_ …” I beg, and he huffs out a groaning, lust-filled chuckle and swallows me down again until his nose is pressing against my pubic hair.

It’s so incredibly tight inside of him, almost to the point of pain, and his rhythm and the vibrations of his voice are pushing me towards the edge so fast that I barely have time to warn him when I feel it start.

“ _Coming_ ,” I moan. “Baby,  _God_ , I’m---”

I break off when my body starts to shake from head to toe and look down to see him move upwards again, giving himself room to take my release, and then everything around me fades to flickering waves of light and colour and white noise.

I think I’m shouting, but I’m not sure, and I don’t care. I’m burning all over, my skin slick with sweat, my hands trembling around his head. It goes on forever.

He sucks me in time with the shudders running through me, and after a while, my brain catches up with events again. He’s moaning softly and caressing my thighs with long, calming strokes, and I take a deep breath and ruffle his hair to get him to look up.

“Sherlock,” I whisper.

He raises his eyes, and I notice that there are tears mingling with the sweat on his cheeks. I wonder if he’s alright. Was I too rough?

“Hmm,” he hums and gives me one last, slow lick before letting me slip out of his mouth.

My heart racing, I take his face in my hands and brush his cheekbones with my thumbs, wiping off the moisture gathering there in the process.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He grins softly.

“Very,” he answers and coughs. “Just a little sore.”

I lean down until I can reach his mouth with mine, and we kiss. It’s slow and loving and so familiar that I can’t believe this is only the third time we have sex – in real life, at least. I feel so at home with him.

“Sorry about the soreness,” I mumble against his lips. “But this was the best blowjob I’ve ever had. The fucking  _best_. You’re incredible.”

He smiles again and nips my upper lip with his teeth.

“It was worth it for “Sher-God” alone. I liked that,” he jokes.

I snort.

“I can imagine.”

We laugh, and the laugh turns into another kiss, and then I slide down on the floor with him and lean my forehead against his shoulder.

“Need a break?” he asks.

I look up again and raise my eyebrows.

“I’m not  _that_  much older than you. In fact, I’m aspiring to be the last one standing tonight – after I’ve had my way with you.”

I’m only half-joking, and the look in his eyes shows me that he knows. He gives me a sweet, but challenging smile and kisses my temple.

“Aspire away,” he says.

I grin.

"Let’s swap places."

\---

" _Oh_  my God, John…  _Oh_ …"

He runs his fingers down my temples, my jaw and the sides of my neck, and I shudder - he's so gentle, so soft right now, and I can't believe how proud it makes me feel to be the focus of his tenderness.

I gaze up at him and raise the corner of my mouth to give him a small smile, and he sighs and grins and caresses my ears with his thumbs.

"You're so beautiful, my love," he breathes.

I hum lowly and run my tongue around his tip, feeling the texture of his skin, learning about every ridge and vein, and his thighs tremble against my sides. It's only the second time I'm doing this, so I'm still a little insecure about whether my technique (if you can call it a technique at this point in time) is acceptable - is this good for him? Am I going fast enough, hard enough, deep enough? He's sitting in front of me, keeping his body still, and I let him slide inside a little deeper and watch his face to see his reaction. When I suck him in, hollowing my cheeks like he did when our roles were reversed, he groans and lets his head fall back, baring his gorgeous neck to me.

"Mmhhh…  _yes_ …"

It's absolutely breathtaking to see him like this and know that it’s  _me_  who’s making him look and sound so  _different_ , and I go down on him as deeply as I can, suppressing my gag reflex when he comes close to hitting the back of my throat. I'd never manage to swallow him, not until he teaches me how, anyway, but I want to make an effort.

"Oh my  _God_ ," he repeats in a low, throaty voice. 

I’m making an atheist call out for God, I think and want to laugh. I want to make him say it over and over again, make him scream it in ecstasy while he spills himself inside my mouth, but I also want so much more tonight, so I slow down after bobbing my head a few times and carefully pull back, licking him all the way up until he slips out of me with a soft  _plop_.

He looks back down at me, his lips parted, his chest moving with soundless, panting breaths.

"Get down here with me, Sherlock” I tell him and get up to stretch my legs. “On your knees again."

He needs me to take control, and I will. My heart is hammering a staccato rhythm against my ribs, but I try to appear self-confident on the outside. I'm about to do something I've never done before, and I'm nervous and aroused in equal parts.

"Yes," he whispers and does as I say, and I open his bedside drawer to get the lube I know he's keeping there.

He props his hands against the mattress and waits for me to join him.

I put the small tube on the bed, right next to his right arm, and then I get behind him and lean forwards to rain some light kisses onto the bare skin visible between his bandages, loving the way he shivers in response.

"Get comfortable, love," I murmur and glide my hands down his flanks. His skin is smooth and warm. "I want you to leave it all to me now…"

He nods and sinks onto the bed with his upper body, his head turned to the side, a long sigh stuttering out of his throat. I take in his profile. His mouth is open, showing a hint of teeth, and his eyes are half-closed, staring into the middle distance with a glazed, slightly intoxicated look. He looks completely relaxed. 

"Your beauty is beyond words," I say and kiss his hip, then his left buttock. "I could look at you forever and never get bored."

He swallows audibly. I smile against his skin and move my mouth to his other buttock, kissing him there as well.

"I want to learn about every part of you," I add, and then I just close my eyes and follow my instincts, licking first his tailbone, then the place where the cleft of his arse starts.

He utters a short whimper and spreads his legs. He’s inviting me in, I think, and my heart swells at the thought. Sherlock is giving me access to his most private place. I’m the luckiest man on earth.

"Yes, let me hear you…” I sigh and bite the spot I’ve just licked. “Let me know what you like…"

I move lower, his scent clouding my brain. He obviously cleaned himself before he changed into his pyjamas, and I smell body wash and skin and something that must be his own, musky fragrance, and it's surprisingly okay to kiss him down there, more than okay, in fact, and I grin to myself and finally lick his opening, teasing the soft, puckered ring with the tip of my tongue.

"Yes, yes…" he hisses. " _John_ …" 

I flick my tongue against him and then suck at his entrance, getting it wet and slippery, and then I push inside as far as I can go.

He moans and writhes against the mattress, pressing back into my kiss, and I grab his arse and knead it slowly while I thrust my tongue into him again and again.

" _Ohhhh_  God…  _Ah_ , John,  _mmhhh_ …" he rambles. He's breathing faster now.

"Yeah, baby," I pant into the damp heat burning my lips. "I love it… I love you…" His legs begin to shake, and I find that my nervousness has almost entirely disappeared. His responses are proof that he likes this, and I want more of them, and stronger ones, right now. " _God_ , you taste so good… and you're so hot inside… I want to pleasure you all night… with my mouth, my hands… my  _cock_ …"

He sobs out a strangled groan. His hips buck forwards and he rubs himself against the side of the bed, whining in frustration when it doesn't give him the friction he needs.

"Sshhh… I'll take care of you…"

I reach around him with my left hand and wrap it around his weeping erection, all the while continuing to tongue his arse, and judging from the sounds I can now hear him make it seems like he's biting the bedsheet to stifle his moans.

"You're  _so_  fucking sexy…" I tell him and give him a few slow strokes, not caring that my version of dirty talk is not nearly as refined as his.

He whimpers again, clearly not minding my bluntness. Blindly, I grope for the lube with my right hand and squeeze some of it onto my fingers. I’m making a mess of it, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except him, here in front of me, his cock in my hand, and his twitching heat trying to grip my tongue and hold it inside.

“Yeah, Sherlock…”

I crouch down and slide my mouth lower still, never ceasing to stroke him, and when I reach his perineum I rub my tongue against it and simultaneously press my middle finger against his hole.

“Johnnn…  _Nghhh!_ ” 

His voice sounds oddly deep and rough, and he’s  _loud_  – I wonder whether we should have done this in my bedroom rather than his, just to spare Mrs Hudson the details, but then again – she’s probably happy to hear that he’s enjoying himself.

I listen to his gasps and nip at the tender skin of his scrotum with my lips, and suddenly I feel the muscle I’m now circling with my fingertip give way and practically pull me inside. It doesn’t take a lot of work on my part to slip my finger into his body up to the second knuckle, and when I’m there, I rest my forehead against his hip for a moment to savour the sensation.

“You feel amazing, Sherlock…  _So_ hot… God, this is so beautiful…” I whisper.

He grunts and grinds back against my hand in a clear request for more, and I straighten up again to look at him. He’s flushed all over, most of all down his neck and upper back, and his skin is glowing with a fine sheen of sweat. He looks ethereal in the dim light of his bedside lamp.

“My love,” I murmur and squeeze his cock on the down-stroke, spreading his precome all over the shaft in the process. “You’re exquisite… the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen…”

My back is protesting by now, not used to being bent like that for extended amounts of time, but I ignore it. I pull my hand back until I’m almost all the way out, then thrust my finger back inside, and this time I can go further, and it’s incredible. At medical school, we used to joke about prostate exams and the more or less awkward training they required (I still feel sorry for all the compliant patients who let student John fumble around with their most intimate body parts), but now I’m happy that I paid attention – I find the small bump on the first try, and when I nudge it with the pad of my finger to gauge his reaction he shudders beneath me, his hands twisting the sheet he’s holding on to by now.

“ _Yesss!_ ” he presses out through clenched teeth, and I do it again, and again.

I go for a slow, but steady rhythm of in and out and use the same pace on his cock, careful not to push him too far – I don’t want him to come like this. He melts into the bed, moaning continuously now, and after a minute or so I think that he’s relaxed enough for some more. I wonder if I should warn him, but then decide not to – I remember what it felt like when he did it to me, and the surprise at the sudden fullness was part of the thrill for me back then. On the next thrust, I push my index finger inside of him as well, and his body opens up for me without any resistance.

“Ahhh…  _oh_ \--- John…” he groans. “Yeeesss…”

I love that he’s so vocal. It makes it easy for me to react to him, and with every breathy  _John!_  that escapes him my cock finds it easier and easier to rejoin the proceedings.

“Mmhhh, baby… You should see yourself now… You’re gorgeous…” I tell him and hold my fingers inside him, pressing against his sweet spot and massaging it with slow, circular motions.

“Johnnn…” he slurs.

His penis twitches in my hand and he shivers, and I squeeze his base for a few seconds before letting go of him completely. He makes a pitiful sound and slaps the mattress with his hands.

“Sshhh, love…” I coo. “ _Soon_ … I promise…”

“Need---  _need_  to---  _come_ …” he mumbles into the sheet and then rests his forehead against the bed.

I watch his muscles flex under his skin and marvel at it – he’s alive, so alive now, and all mine. I’m glad now that we haven’t had sex since he suffered his breakdown at the breakfast table – I’m already hard again, and still _so_ horny despite the spectacular orgasm I’ve just experienced.

“I know… You will…” I lean over him, mindful not to touch his back, and blow some cool air over the back of his neck. “I want to fuck you, Sherlock,” I whisper. “I’ll fuck you until you come… It’ll be so good… I’ll make you see  _heaven_  tonight…”

For a brief, hyper-aware moment I wonder if that was too much, too soppy, but no – he likes it. He cranes his head until he can brush my ear with his hot lips and balls his hands into fists.

“Yes,” he moans, and there are tears in his voice now. “ _Please_ …”

I straighten up again and spread my fingers inside of him to stretch him a bit more.

“Soon,” I repeat.

I can hardly wait, either. I give him a few more thrusts, and soon he starts to move with me, easing me into a rhythm he likes. His eagerness is so mind-numbingly erotic that I have to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep myself in check. I want to be inside him  _now_ , want to pound into him and see him come undone completely, but it’s not time yet.

“My love… You’re wonderful…” I tell him and twist my hand while scissoring my fingers, just to see what it will do to him.

He starts to cry in earnest now. His tears trickle into the fabric of the bedsheet, turning it a darker colour. When he rolls his head from side to side, I can see that he’s smiling blissfully, even as shaky sobs work their way out of his chest.

“More,” he begs. “ _John!_ ”

I’m inside as deep as I can go, finding that he’s completely slack and open for me, while the rest of his body seems to be wound up as tight as a spring.

“Yes… You’re ready,” I rumble and pull out of him.

He’s trembling all over, waiting for me, small sobs and whimpers escaping him as he sucks in large gulps of breath.

I grab the lube again and pour a liberal amount into his crack before throwing it aside. He shudders – it’s cold, I suppose.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” I pant and push my cock between his buttocks to tease him and myself a little more and slick myself up thoroughly.

“Please,” he mutters desperately. “Need---  _you_ …”

“I know, love… I need you too…”

I use my thumb to guide my tip into his opening, and it takes only a little pressure to enter him completely. He groans loudly and almost topples me over when he shoves back against me, and I brace my legs against the floor and hold his hips to keep him still. It’s absolutely incredible to be inside him like this – it’s so much more intense than just the fingers, and I feel lightheaded from feeling him pulsing all around me, sheathing me in slick, tight heat. Since he’s so tall, it’s difficult to get a good angle, and I have to shuffle back a bit and pull him along so that he can spread his legs a little more. He follows willingly, like putty in my hands, and the surge of possessive power flooding my system at seeing him like that is so, so good.

I’m operating purely on auto-pilot by now, and in a small, detached part of my mind I look at myself making love to him and wonder why the hell I was so insecure about this. Everything’s fine. I’ll learn it as I go, and right now it’s perfect – he’s letting go, just like I want him to, like he  _needs_  to.

“Yeah, baby…” I gasp and grind against him in slow circles, not ready to thrust yet – it’s too good to be all the way inside, to feel his bollocks brush against mine, to own him so completely, finally. “You’re the best--- the  _best_  fucking thing I’ve ever felt…  _God_ , so tight, so hot…”

He leans his head against his forearm and moans, his shoulders heaving in time with his panting. Every breath he takes makes him clench down on me ever so slightly, and after a minute of enjoying this new closeness I can’t take it anymore. I have to move, to come, to give him my all.

I pull back and thrust in again, slowly and gently at first, but then more forcefully, and he holds on to the bed, the sheet slip-sliding towards him as he pulls at it and groans into the crook of his arm. He looks utterly wrecked with lust.

“Oh---  _God_ ,” I growl and run my hands through the sweat on the skin of his hips and thighs. “I've been thinking about this--- for two years, Sherlock… At night, touching myself… thinking about taking you, making you---  _mine_ … dreaming about your beautiful body all around me… your sweet arse pulling me in,  _squeezing_  me…”

He mewls softly. I wish I could be closer to him now, but his back is still too tender, so I knead his flesh where I’m allowed to touch him and save the rest in the back of my mind, like a to-do list for next time, all the while moving my hips in short, deep thrusts, trying to find the perfect angle to give him stimulation in the places where it counts – it’s work, sort of, but his shudders and cries when I hit a good spot make up for it.

“ _Johnnn_ … Yes… I’m---  _yours_ …” he rambles and arches his back. “Take---  _me_ …”

He’s letting go more beautifully than I could ever have imagined, so I decide to tell him about what’s going to happen as soon as he’s well again.

“Ohhh,  _Sherlock_ … When you’ve healed… we’ll do this again… and then I’ll have you on your back, looking at me… I’ll lie on top of you… I'll be  _so_  deep inside you, so  _close_  to you...  _hmmm_ … I’ll kiss you, lick the salt off your neck, your chest… oh  _God---_ ”

I’m imagining it, and I know that he is, too, because he moans and turns his head and then opens his mouth to let his tongue sneak out to taste the sweaty skin of his biceps. I’m not sure whether he’s seducing me on purpose, but it’s working. I’m almost crazy with desire.

“ _Ngh!_ ” I grunt and thrust a little harder. “You’re a fucking---  _tease_ …”

He groans and  _bites_  his own arm then, his teeth pulling at his own skin in mindless abandon, and my world narrows down to this – the two of us, joined so deeply, the feeling that’s spreading from my cock into the rest of my body, stronger than anything I’ve ever felt before, and the knowledge that this beautiful, wanton creature now writhing in pleasure in front of me is mine, all mine, forever. I can’t breathe. I love him so much.

“P--- Please,” he gasps. “So---  _close_ …”

I speed up my thrusts and reach down with one hand to make a tight fist around his cock, and he almost howls at the touch. He’s so, so hard, and the sweat and lube and precome coating his skin make him slip back and forth in my grasp with the movement of our hips. I can feel the blood pulsing through his length, and I know he’s about to come. Any moment now.

I clench my teeth and pull out almost completely just to come back and pound into him hard, fighting down my own impending completion, which is about to overwhelm me. I want him to come first. With my thighs and bollocks slapping against his and him emitting these wonderfully wild, uninhibited moans and sobs, we sound like a gay porn movie. A damn good one. (Poor Mrs Hudson.)

“ _Come_ \--- for me… baby,” I press out and squeeze his hip so hard that I’m sure it will leave an imprint on his flesh. “Let go… Do it---  _now_ …”

He lets out a long, shaky groan and then sucks in a large, desperate gulp of air, and then he shouts,  _barks_  out my name, and it’s the sound I remember him making on the phone that first time in Colombia, the sound I’ve wanted to hear again ever since.

“ _JOHN!_ ”

He comes all over my hand and, I assume, the side of the bed, his body spasming around me, milking me, his head thrown back, his knuckles white as he tears at the sheet with frantic movements. It’s a stunning sight to behold, and I allow myself to let go now, too. I need only a few more quick, shallow thrusts to finish as well.

“Sher--- lock---  _oh!_ ”

I fold in on myself when it hits me, and I shake against his arse as I spill myself deep inside of him, my hands still on his hip and cock, squeezing, kneading, stroking to make it last for him, and he cries out again and pushes back against me, clamping down on my cock, holding it inside.

“ _Hng_ , baby,” I pant. “ _Yes_ …”

We keep up our rhythm for a few more thrusts, shuddering through our climaxes together. My ears are roaring with the rush of blood to my head, so much that it almost makes me feel dizzy. When I finally stop thrusting, he turns his head to the side to glance at me over his shoulder, and the eye I can see is bright with something I haven’t seen in a long, long while. He’s happy.

I smile at him and move my hips in slow circles to enjoy the ripples of the aftershocks running through my nerves, and he follows my movements and hums lowly, apparently savouring the sensation.

We do that for about a minute, our breathing slowing down in the process, our bodies relaxing into the sparkly warmth of satisfaction that follows amazing sex, and then I stop moving and gently pull out of him. He slumps forwards and against the mattress, boneless and limp.

“God,” he whispers. “ _John_.”

I grab my t-shirt from where it’s lying on the floor behind me and wipe my hands with it, and then I dab it against his cock to clean at least some of the come off his skin. He shivers and purrs deep inside his chest.

“You’re so beautiful,” I tell him and press a brief kiss on the small of his back.

I want to clean the cleft of his buttocks as well to get rid of the lube gathering there, but stop in mid-wipe to watch, mesmerised, as my own come begins to trickle out of him and then slowly runs down his testicles and the insides of his thighs.

“ _Fuck_ ,” I sigh. “You’re amazing.”

He chuckles softly.

“You did that,” he replies, still breathing a little erratically.

“I love you,” I say and then clean him up carefully, trying to turn the sober and necessary act into one of worship, of reverence.

He waits until I’m finished and afterwards pulls himself up and onto the bed with stiff, slightly awkward movements, and then flops down again in a sprawl of lanky limbs once he’s managed it.

“Come,” he mutters tiredly. “Come here.”

I grin and throw the now soiled t-shirt aside before getting up as well and lying down next to him.

“We’ll need to get the duvet from my room,” I tell him and kiss his temple.

He squints at me.

“I made a mess of the other one.”

I laugh and run my hand through his hair, my thumb rubbing the back of his neck.

“You did. It was awesome.”

He raises his head and purses his lips, and I get the hint and shuffle closer to kiss him. His lips are hot – his whole face is glowing.

“Are you alright?” I ask him when we part again. “How’s your back?”

“It’s fine. I don’t feel any pain whatsoever.  _Anywhere._ ” Stormy eyes meet mine, swirling with ever-changing light and colour. “You took it all away.”

My heart pounding, my whole body nearly bursting with love, I pull him close and kiss him again.

“This is the afterglow we’ve been waiting for for two years,” I whisper against his mouth. “I told you we’d get it eventually.”

He huffs, slings his arm around my waist, and buries his face in the space between his pillow and my neck. I hold him close and breathe into his hair.

I know his pain is not going to go away just like that. We’ve only numbed it a little. He’ll feel worse again soon, and it will take a lot of time and effort to help him heal. But I’m not scared of it anymore.

“If you fall asleep first, I’ve won,” I whisper into his curls, and he chuckles weakly.

“ _Hmmm_ … I surrender…” he slurs.

He’s sound asleep in barely two minutes.

\---

He wakes me up in the middle of the night by pressing himself against my side. He's shaking and soaked in sweat.

" _Hrm?_  Sherlock?" I mumble, not fully aware of my surroundings yet. "What?"

He's breathing fast, and his left hand is clawing at my chest, as if searching for something to hold on to.

"Blood," he hisses, and there's real panic in his voice. " _Blood_."

I roll over and put my arms around him. Careful not to touch his back, I push my duvet, which I fetched from my bedroom after he’d fallen asleep, off his upper body to cool him down a bit.

"You're dreaming again," I say into his ear, trying to give my voice a soothing tone. "It's okay. It's not real. Ssshhh…"

"John…" he whimpers. "I’m so--- so  _sorry_ …"

"I know, love. I know. It's alright. It wasn't your fault… Hold on to me, yeah? I'll protect you."

I kiss his forehead and wonder what he sees when he closes his eyes. Does he see himself running from people, being hurt by them? Or does he see himself being the one who does the hurting? Does he see himself shooting someone? Does he see his hand driving a blade into a living, breathing body, causing blood to gush over his fingers?

He didn’t tell me any details, but I can’t imagine that it was anything but self-defence. He would never stab a person by his own choice.

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.”

I rock him back and forth as much as his injuries allow me to and hum against his temple to calm him, and after a while I can feel the tension in his muscles dissolve.

“Never leave me,” he suddenly whispers and nuzzles his face against my neck. “Please.”

Hearing these words is glorious and terrible, and I swallow hard to push down the tears rising up inside of me.

“I’ll never leave you, Sherlock,” I answer quietly. “Never. You’ll never be alone again. I’ll be by your side, whatever comes our way. Okay?”

A shaky puff of hot breath brushes my collarbone, and I feel my skin become wet with his tears. I stroke my hand down the side of his face and collect the salty drops with the pads of my fingers.

“I love you so much, Sherlock. I’ll never stop. No matter what you do, and no matter what you have done. And if someone tries to hurt you, they’ll have to go past me first.”

We stay silent for a while. He keeps crying, but I think he’s enjoying me caressing his face and his ruffled, sweaty hair, so I continue to do so, keeping my touch gentle and my rhythm steady to lull him to sleep again. Ever so slowly, his breathing evens out.

The minutes pass us by soundlessly. I stare into the semi-darkness, his scent and mine mingling all around us, like a disembodied, amorphous negative of the emotions that were felt inside this room tonight – passion, ecstasy, happiness. Fear. Hope.

“John…” he eventually says and settles more heavily against my body. “I'm... so  _tired_ …”

I press another tender kiss against his head and run my fingernails along his scalp, remembering how I loved being stroked like that when I was a child.

“Then sleep now, my love. I’ll stay awake for a while. I’ll watch over you.”

“Hmm… I love you…” he sighs and takes a deep breath, melting against me, not leaving an inch of space between us.

Then he snuffles and falls asleep.

I lie awake for hours and gaze at the ceiling while I play with his hair. I hope the touch will reach him, deep down in the realms of dreams, and prevent him from slipping back into the nightmare to get a good night’s rest instead.

I’d gladly stay awake forever if that meant he’d never have to face his memories again.

\---

Mary smirks at me when I enter the clinic on Friday morning.

“Gosh, you look knackered,” she informs me.

I scoff and shrug off my jacket, already dreading having to face the mass of patients I noticed in the waiting room on my way in. I _am_ knackered. I’ve had about three hours of sleep. But I’m happy. Sherlock slept deeply and, as he told me groggily when I accidentally woke him up by disentangling myself from his grasp at six o’clock, without any further nightmares.

“Was it the fighting or the making up that kept you awake?” she asks.

She’s unbelievable.

“Both. In that order,” I answer.

She chuckles. We look at each other, and I realise that this is, for some weird reason, _not_ awkward.

“Well, I’m glad. You’d be an idiot to let him get away,” she says. “Those _eyes_. My God.”

I grin.

“Yeah. And the rest is not half bad either.”

She holds up her hands in mock defence, smiling broadly.

“Stop! Too much information.”

I bite my lip, feeling the giddy feeling ebb away. I’m so happy that my last days working here will not be tainted by the icy silence of the past weeks, and I want to let her know.

“Thanks, Mary,” I say, serious again, and I hope she understands.

She gives me a gentle smile.

“Sure. We’re good, John.” She gestures towards the door. “Are you ready for the first one?”

I huff tiredly, but nod.

This is going to be a long, long day.

\---

When I get home, Mycroft’s sitting in the clients’ chair, facing Sherlock, who’s lying face-down on the couch, his upper body hanging halfway over the armrest, his hands shuffling files and photographs littering the floor in front of him.

“John!” Sherlock exclaims as soon as I enter the room. “We’ve got a case! Would you like some tea? There’s some left. Get a cup!”

He sounds so energetic, so excited, and I’m torn between unspeakable relief to see him happy and concern that he might put too much of a strain on himself too early in his recovery.

“A case?” I ask. “You’re not fit to go out yet. No lifting, no running, remember?”

“Yes, yes,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I’m just thinking, John. I’m allowed to think, I gather? Engage in some mental acrobatics?”

He snorts at his own joke, and I furrow my brow and look at Mycroft.

“Did you drug him?” I ask wearily.

“As you well know, difficult cases _are_ like a drug to my dearest brother. And yes, I provided him with one.”

I take a step towards him.

“He can’t go out to investigate yet,” I say firmly. “His back hasn’t healed. He needs another week or two.”

Mycroft gets up.

“Why don’t we leave that to him?”

 _Oh, Mycroft._ You might be the British government, but you’re not the only one with leverage here.

I close the distance between us and look up into his expressionless face.

“You protect his heart, Mycroft,” I whisper and fix him with an unwavering, steely gaze. “I protect his body. You wouldn’t want to find out which lengths I’d go to in order to do so.”

He purses his lips and tries to stare me down, but I don’t back off. After a minute, he seems to decide that it’s not going to work and turns around to walk over to the window.

“It might be sufficient, for the time being, if you provided us with insights, Sherlock. You could do that from here while you complete your healing process. My people could do the foot work,” he says, his tone not betraying the fact that he’s just lost this battle.

I grin, and my eyes fall on Sherlock, who’s still lying there in this strange, uncomfortable position, but who’s not rifling through papers anymore. He’s looking at me with so much longing on his face that I forget how to breathe for a second.

“Yes,” he says slowly, his eyes boring into mine. I'm falling into them. Drowning. “I think that’s for the best, brother mine. I’ll call you.”

I’m not great at making deductions – that’s his job. But if I had to guess, the unspoken afterthought of this is something along the lines of _And now go away, please, because I’m about to shag the brains out of this sexy army doctor here_.

I almost laugh, but I don’t want to be mean. Mycroft was, in his own particular way, a great help during the last two years. I won’t gloat.

“What kind of case is this, anyway?” I ask to break the tension.

Sherlock holds up a file and I take it, my fingers brushing his, causing my heart to stutter. I glance at the newspaper snippets attached to the folder.

“What the hell is a _Cereal Killer_?” I ask.

THE END.


End file.
